Darkness: Master of Shadows
by Deyinel
Summary: Who is the man who calls himself Darkness? A thief and a murderer, and far worse than that. In the dark of night he builds his band of shadows. Who does he choose now? The best of course. Look out for "White Walls" coming soon!
1. Too Late

Darkness: Master of Shadows

Disclaimer: And this is yet another show which I don't own. Funny how many of them there are…

This title is subject to change like many of my other ones. I've changed it about five times already, but nothing seems…perfect enough.

This story is one where I'm trying to work with elements outside the experience of the characters. It is also very different from the other Fillmore stories I have seen. For one thing, Fillmore is the main character, and most of the other characters from the show will not even be making appearances. Ingrid will be a major character, but even she won't appear for a few chapters. This is a weird story to be sure, but it inspired me and I had to write it.

Please read and give it a chance. Enjoy!

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This chapter is dedicated to the episode "A Forgotten Yesterday" which inspired this story. ;)

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Tahoma: That one's got attitude.

Vallejo: That one is also the best.

- _Fillmore – Test of the Tested_

* * *

Principal Folsom leaned back in her plush recliner, feet up on the footrest, and trailed an elegantly manicured finger down the chair's royal blue arm. After a moment she turned to the coffee table beside her and, uncorking a bottle of cranberry flavored Featherstone, filled her glass with the sparkling red wine. She swirled the beverage gently around the glass for a moment or two, allowing it to aerate, the aroma rising to her nostrils. She lifted the glass…

_Ding-ong._

Perfect.

Setting the wineglass back on the coffee table, Folsom got slowly to her feet with the air of a martyr. She crossed to the door, pausing to smooth the wrinkles out of her sweater and pants before opening it.

"Evening Folsom," Darkness said. "May I come in?"

Principal Folsom felt her secure, comfortable life shaking to its foundations as she stared at him.

Nothing about Darkness was particularly frightening. He was tall, close to six feet, but he wore a pleasant, almost fatherly smile on his face. The simple gray suit he wore was modest, if a little austere and he sported short-cropped black hair shot with gray. Only his eyes were cold. They spoke to her clearly of the power he held over her head like a guillotine's blade.

Dumbly she nodded, and stood aside to allow him entry.

Once inside he allowed himself to be conducted into the living room and stood by while she closed the curtains against watchful eyes.

"Gloom is dead," he said when she turned from the window.

"I'm sorry," Folsom replied stiffly. There had been no sorrow in his voice, but she felt that she had to say it. Not for the man before her though, never for him.

"He was a mistake." Darkness shrugged dismissively. "Barely out of training and he gets himself killed. I should never have taken him in the first place. Ah, well. We all make mistakes." He was speaking softly, as though to himself, but Folsom wasn't fooled. Everything he said was for her benefit. It was his way for showing her what he was capable of.

"What do you want?" Folsom asked. She tried to add a note of imperiousness to her voice but it didn't quite come out that way.

"Payment." He smiled conspiratorially at her. "But of course you knew that, you were just hoping that you were wrong."

Yes, she had known it all along. Sooner or later he was bound to demand the price for his help and, she suddenly discovered, she was not willing to pay it.

Folsom drew herself up slightly. She said coldly "I am well aware that I owe you a great deal and I will give you whatever monetary sum you think is adequate, but I will not let you kidnap one of my students to force into your twisted army." Darkness smiled again, rather hungrily this time.

"But you will." He took a step forward; one step and he seemed to loom over her. He said "You will look the other way when I capture a child of my choosing, you will give away nothing and will do all you can to tilt the investigation toward that of a common criminal. You will do all this because if you do not then my Shadows and I will take away everything I helped you gain. I made you and I can break you just as easily.

"And besides," he continued, "it will make no difference. What could you tell them? My name? You don't know it. Where I live? You don't know that either. What I do? You have no proof and will not be believed. I would still take the child and I might even leave _you_ to take the blame." Darkness smiled and helped himself to a glass of wine from the bottle on the table. Folsom sank silently into her chair, she knew she could do nothing.

"Who do you want?" she asked wanly.

Darkness' smile widened and he lifted the glass as though toasting her. "Why the best, of course," he said.

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Next chapter up tomorrow or the next day, as it's already more than halfway finished. I hope you enjoyed it so far and will continue reading.

And please review and tell me what you think, it is a great encouragement.


	2. Myself

Darkness: Master of Shadows Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine, I don't care, although it is an awesome show. Not that I own the ones I _do_ care about either…

Here we are with chapter 2! Thank you so much to those who reviewed! I didn't really expect to get any reviews for the first chapter, and you definitely made my day! I also got quite a few hits, so thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed chapter one, and I hope you'll continue to read!

Oh, and sorry this is so late, I ended up having a lot of trouble writing the last half.

Enjoy the chapter!

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Cornelius Fillmore knew where he was before he even opened his eyes. Or at least, he knew where he was likely to be. People said that when you were knocked unconscious you were disoriented upon waking and would be confused as to what had happened, perhaps think that you were home in bed. Be that as it may he now privately considered it a load of tripe.

He knew exactly what had happened.

He did not open his eyes, but lay still on his back, heart racing; he might not be alone. He listened intently, straining his ears, but could hear nothing. Of course, that didn't necessarily mean his captor or captors weren't there, they might just be keeping still. He wasn't tied up, that was something at least. He could feel, as well, that he was lying on cushions. There was a small slant to them, and his left arm was resting against what might be another, upended cushion. A couch? Possibly.

He couldn't help it, he opened his eyes.

The room was empty.

There was one door and a washstand in a corner and that was about it. The walls were gray and cold.

The edges of the room and the washbasin looked fuzzy, and Fillmore realized that he wasn't wearing his glasses. He felt very exposed without them, and started feeling around himself, frightened that he might have crushed them in his sleep.

Fillmore swung his legs over the edge of the couch and got to his feet. He crossed to the door, but instead of opening it he leant against the cool, dark wood, ear to the crack, and listened.

Silence.

Turning again, Fillmore noticed a pile of articles lying on a small table next to the black leather couch. His backpack. The memory flashed across his mind. His attacker's hand on his forehead, pulling his head back, a hand on his pack, pulling back and upwards, the uncomfortable feeling sound of ripping cloth as the shoulder seem of his pack ripped, an elbow or something hard thudding into the base of his skull, bringing with it instant, frightening blackness, all this whirled through his mind as he stared at the torn strap hanging over the table's edge.

Fillmore felt a shiver run down his spine at the remembrance, but managed to shake it off and approach the table.

The dark green backpack had been emptied and lay neatly folded with its straps tucked underneath. Next to it the contents had been ordered into piles. Fillmore couldn't see anything missing, but it gave him a fresh chill to think of some stranger going methodically through his things, _organizing_ them. His glasses were lying on top of one pile, and he hurriedly snatched them up and slipped them on, feeling slightly relieved as his vision cleared. The relief was short lived, however.

Someone was at the door.

He heard a key turning in the lock. Fillmore backed up slightly. For an instant he was tempted to retreat to the couch and pretend to be unconscious, but even if there had been time for this rather feeble defense, he felt that he had to know what was going on. He didn't want to be completely helpless and unable to see.

The door opened and a man came in. There was nothing particularly menacing about the man, but Fillmore felt like backing up some more. Instead he drew himself up and stared levelly at him. Somehow it made him feel a little more in control and less like helpless pray.

"Cornelius Fillmore," the man said. He smiled, and Fillmore felt uncomfortably that the man was _pleased_ with him somehow.

"Who are you, and why am I here," Fillmore asked. He hadn't meant to say anything, but the way the man was looking at him was frightening. It was like he was being inspected and sized up. It made him feel like millions of ants were running up and down his back under his shirt.

"You are here for training," the man said. "And I am Darkness."

"Darkness?"

"That's right," the man, Darkness said. He then turned and opened the door again, admitting a tall, thin, dark haired boy of about fifteen. He was wearing loose, black clothes, and stared constantly at the floor as he entered. Fillmore stiffened again; this was the boy who had grabbed him, he was certain.

"Reaper," Darkness said, and the boy looked up with cold, expressionless eyes. "Take him."

The command was unexpected; after all, he was already captured, and Fillmore had hardly time to realize what was happening before the boy was on him, his strong hands grasping Fillmore's shoulders. Fillmore did not have time for conscious thought and reacted by sheer instinct. He ducked backward, trying futilely to loosen the boy's grip, then brought one foot up forcefully, which terminated between his assailant's legs.

The boy did not make a sound, but his sharp intake of breath showed he was at least in pain. His rock-hard hands loosened involuntarily, and Fillmore pulled free and staggered back. But the boy had recovered in an instant, and was on him again. This time he seized Fillmore's right arm and twisted it up behind his back until the pain was so intense Fillmore could do nothing but stand there and breathe.

"That's enough," Darkness said. His words floated to Fillmore through the haze of pain. "Hold him." Fillmore felt him come and stand in front of them, but he didn't look up. All his attention was focused on the fiery waves of pain emanating from his arm. "I am disappointed in you Reaper," Darkness said softly. "I told you he was unpredictable. Now come."

The grip on Fillmore's arm was relaxed slightly, so that he could stand more easily, and then he was pushed out the door and into a light gray corridor. Fillmore didn't struggle. For one thing, the pressure on his arm was still enough to be a constant ache, with the equally constant warning that it would be increased again if he so much as twitched. Also, he knew his chances of escape right now were nil, never his favorite odds. It would be better to save his strength for any opportunities that might present themselves in the future.

They only walked down the corridor for about ten yards before coming to another door. This door not only had a lock, but also a key pad and what turned out to be some kind of retinal scanner. Darkness leaned forward and allowed the machine to flash a soft light in both of his eyes, then entered a code into the key pad before inserting a small, black key into the small, black lock, and opening the door.

All of these precautions had served to make Fillmore even more frightened than he was before. _What is so valuable, or so dangerous, that it had to be locked up like this?_ He wondered. But he didn't really want to know, and he knew he was about to find out.

Inside the room was a chair. It was a hard chair with a tall back and thick armrests, and it was made of some kind of black metal. It was not a particularly frightening chair but for two things. From the back of the chair was suspended a curious headdress, a kind of mesh of silvery wires that looked as though it fitted over the whole head. And thick straps were attached to the chair in the perfect places to hold a person's wrists, arms, legs and torso.  
Fillmore stopped. Immediately the boy at his back twisted his arm again, sending a fresh shock of pain shooting up into his shoulder and back. Fillmore gasped.

"What are you going to do to me?" He tried not to sound as panicked as he felt, but he knew that he was in far more trouble than he knew.

Darkness laid a firm hand on his other shoulder, and guided him forward. Fillmore tried to kick out, but this time all that resulted from his attempt at escape was another excruciating twist of his arm. They shoved him into the chair and fastened him too it with the straps. If he tilted his head up Fillmore could see the frightening tangle of wires above his head. They glinted in the light of the overhead like tinsel. They were far too frightening to be pretty, and yet somehow they were.

Suddenly Fillmore noticed that the boy Reaper had left the room. He was alone with darkness.

"What are you going to do to me?" he repeated, this time in a whisper.

Darkness smiled again. He said "I am going to going to remove all those bright memories cluttering up your head until all that remains is Darkness. When I am finished with you, you will merely be one of my shadows."

Darkness lowered the sparkling headdress onto his captive's head, and then moved over to a control board near the wall. Fillmore's last, desperate thought as the machine began to whir, as the wires turned painfully bright, was of that frightening, dead eyed boy called Reaper. The conclusion was terribly clear.

Then his mind sunk into darkness.

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Well, I'm not really sure how this chapter came out. It was really hard to write for some reason. I hope I didn't disappoint you all with Fillmore in this chapter. I tried to keep him in character given his terrifying circumstances, and I hope I succeeded. This is the hardest chapter to write that I believe I will have for a while. I know exactly where this story is going, and in the next chapters I believe you will get to see Fillmore more himself, so to speak. ;)

I will be away for the next week, until July 6. We're going camping, and since I won't have a computer, and since my friends are coming along, I don't think I'll get anything written. But I will try to update this story SOON after I get back.

Thanks for reading, and if you like, leave a review and tell me how this chapter was. I really appreciate the feedback!


	3. Training

Darkness: Master of Shadows chap 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Fillmore. In my story, Darkness does…

Thank you to everyone who is reading this story and enjoying it. It is attempting to be in an unusual style that I have never tried before, namely this suspense style. I think it fits, but I'd certainly like anyone's opinions on that. Also, thank you so much to my reviewers! You made my day!

I have five or six major ocs in this story, which must all be original and decent characters, and several of them actually have to be likeable, namely Fillmore's two friends, who you will meet in this chapter. Please let me know how they work and if I should work more on their characters to make them more believable. In some ways this story will be a practice for my Jimmy Neutron story "Lucky Thirteen" which will have, (are you ready?) **twelve** major, deep and realistic characters. I could have probably gone with less, but I can't anymore, because it wouldn't work with the story I'm writing. So anyway, any and all feedback on my ocs here will be a big help.

Thank you, and enjoy chapter three!

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The wall light clicked on and the Shadow's eyes snapped open. Reaching over, he grabbed the small, round glasses off of the low table next to the bed and slipped them on, bringing the edges of his room into focus.

The light was soft and white, brightening slowly to allow the Shadow's eyes to adjust as he climbed briskly out of bed and headed over to his cupboard to get dressed. The Shadow pulled on his clothes, shivering as the thin gray pants and shirt did little to fight the early morning chill. Mornings were sometimes quite cool this deep underground, although the temperature was regulated if there was need.

Dressed, he ran a hand over his bare head, considering whether it needed shaving. He decided against it; his hair grew slowly, and he could barely even feel the stubble under his palm.

He glanced at the clock. Good, he was early. Then, slipping on a pair of soft, black shoes, he opened the door to his room, and ducked out into the corridor, sliding the heavy metal back into place as he did so.

The hallway was almost deserted, but he could see a few others, mostly full shadows on their way to the training rooms. The shadow liked being early, as it gave him a chance to limber up beforehand. He headed down the plain hallway, nodding as he passed someone he knew.

Demon was waiting for him when he arrived. The first bell had just rung, and the hallway was now rather noisy with the sound of other trainees rushing so as to arrive in time. Demon winked at him as they listened to the noise outside. The shadow liked and respected Demon immensely. She was a tough trainer, but fair, and patient. She was also a little more lax than was usual about talking to trainees, and he sometimes had very interesting conversations with her before their sessions, and whenever it was necessary to pause for a breather. Though she was several years his senior, the shadow always felt that Demon genuinely liked him as well, and thusly their sessions were always mutually enjoyable. While all of the full shadows were excellent trainers, with the possible exception of Reaper, Demon was regarded by most as close to the best.

"How are you this morning?" Demon asked when the noise had died down slightly. "Not too sore from yesterday?"

"I'm alright," the shadow answered. Yesterday's session had been particularly demanding, but he felt better after a full night's rest.

The two of them stretched, and then began to spar. As they did so, the shadow noticed that Demon was much more tense than usual, her face serious. Her strikes were swift and brutal and the shadow had to use all his skill to block them and return attacks of his own. This silence was very unlike Demon and boded something serious. In response, the shadow grew silent as well, until the only sounds were the drawing of breath, the scraping and squeaking of the mats and the thump of feet and hands when they connected.

After nearly twice as long as they usually took, Demon called a halt and the two of them stood, breathing heavily and almost equally exhausted.

"Very good," Demon congratulated. She paused and ran a hand through her short, black hair. The sweat stood out on her tanned forehead and she smiled approvingly. "You're really improving," she continued. I was instructed to test how my trainees were advancing, and I'd guess you might be taken above soon."

The shadow felt a thrill of excitement. He knew about the world outside, but he had never been there, at least as far as he could remember. Shadows only began to go above when they reached the advanced portion of their training and were close to getting their names. The thought that this experience was soon to happen to him filled him with excitement, but true to form, he didn't let it show, and merely treated Demon to a raised eyebrow and a little, enigmatic smile.

He didn't ask who had instructed her, or whether she had actually spoken to Darkness, which was possible, but unlikely. He didn't ask, because he knew he wouldn't get an answer, but he _wanted_ to know. So many things about his life were mysteries, and he was filled with a burning curiosity to discover the truth. Sometimes he wanted so badly to investigate the mysteries that surrounded him that he could only hold off because of his awe of Darkness, and all that was his. But still the curiosity persisted.

* * *

It was still with him when he joined his friends in the canteen for breakfast. His rigorous training session had left him with a huge appetite, but his mind was occupied by less base particulars and he slid into his seat with a rather preoccupied air.

"Hey," his male friend whispered, poking him. The shadow looked over at his friend, a short, oriental boy with black hair that looked as though it was in constant contact with an electrical socket.

"What is it?" the shadow whispered back. They were allowed to talk so long as they kept it quiet, but the tone of his friend's voice suggested something secret, and the shadow didn't want anyone else to hear if he could help it.

"Reaper gave me a compliment," the boy announced proudly.

The shadow chuckled softly, and a low whistle sounded from his side as their other friend leant over to listen, brushing her soft, grayish hair away from her face.

"What did you do?" she asked now. "Fly?"

"Almost!" The small boy laughed. Praise from Reaper was about as likely as the shadow getting answers to the mysteries that plagued him, only in this case it appeared that there was a small possibility of it happening. It had certainly never happened in the times when Reaper had been teaching him, although the shadow always thought that Reaper had some kind of grudge against him, although he couldn't imagine what.

"All right," the shadow asked. "Don't keep us waiting, what happened?"

"Well, Reaper had me doing a bat drill. You know, those ones where you have to close your eyes and only use your ears." The two shadows nodded. "I guess it was because I got such a good sleep last night. I had this wonderful dream, only I can't remember it." The oriental boy's voice softened at the recollection. "But it left me with a really calm feeling this morning, and when I was concentrating on the drill the sounds just came to me."

"And what happened?" the shadow persisted.

"I caught him."

"Oh, snap! You caught Reaper?" The shadow chuckled again, but more out of respect for his friend this time.

The three of them cast quick glances over toward the table where the named shadows sat. Reaper, as usual, was sitting stiffly, silent. He never participated in the conversations of the others. He never joked or laughed. None of them could remember ever seeing a smile on his thin, handsome face with its close cropped black hair and cold eyes. As usual, the shadow felt a shiver run down his spine when he looked at Reaper. There was something _wrong_ about him.

"What compliment did he give you?" the shadow's female friend asked suddenly. The little boy puffed out his chest.

He said with dignity, "Reaper said I did all right."

Amid the ensuing giggles this remark wrought the shadow summoned his courage to ask something that had been bothering him for quite a while, but especially since this morning's session with Demon.

Turning to the girl beside him, he asked, "What's it like, above."

His friend frowned, but not out of annoyance. She seemed to be deciding how phrase her reply.

"Amazing," she said. She spoke slowly. "The air is so fresh it is like drinking clear, cold water. It is cold up there, much more so than down here, but the cold too is fresh and somehow clean." Her voice lowered and seemed to wrap itself in mist until she seemed to be speaking more to herself than to him, but the shadow didn't mind. He watched her as she spoke and felt himself becoming lost in the soft wistfulness of her voice. "Where you come above there is a forest with many trees," she said. "They stretch up so high, until they are lost in the darkness, far, far beyond your head. And the last time I went up there was snow on the ground. It was feathery and light, and it seemed to stand out against the dark as though it were the only thing in the whole world that was real.

"Mind," she said, breaking in on her description. "I've only been above a few times so far, and I'm sure it is very different during the other seasons."

The shadow was still thinking of the world which she had painted for him, and what he was thinking was this. The world above was undoubtedly strange and different, but it was surly interesting and fantastic. And suppose…suppose it even held some of the answers he had been seeking. When he went above, perhaps he could discover the world for himself.

The shadow bit into his piece of buttered toast, but his mind was far away, far above.

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Do you have any idea how hard it is to write for people who have no names? Particularly if several of them are talking to each other? Anyway, I hope I pulled it off.

Tell me how the ocs are doing so far, as well as how I'm handling Fillmore. You will get to see him more like himself in the next chapter, I hope, as there will be less catching up and exposition.

And yes, Ingrid will be in the story, just not for a few more chapters yet.

Send me reviews if you like, they make me happy.


	4. Many Mysteries

Darkness: Master of Shadows chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine, I'm just borrowing it.

So here is chapter four. I'm glad everyone likes my ocs so far, (at least I haven't gotten any death threat reviews yet…) and that people generally think Fillmore is in character. Thank you so much to everyone who is still reading, and virtual hugs to my lovely reviewers! You guys rock!

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The shadow grasped the rung above his head and pulled himself up. The rungs were smooth and cold. He could feel their chill through his thin black gloves. Above him, Reaper had already finished the ascent and was waiting for him. Ordinarily, the shadow would have been bothered by Reaper's disdainful expression, but he was too excited tonight. He could smell the air, fresh and icy, and the cold seemed to invigorate him.

Was this how his friend had felt? Was this how everyone felt, as though their hearts were about to burst? He continued up the rungs to where Reaper waited for him at the hatch.

"Silence," Reaper whispered. The shadow hadn't made a sound, but he guessed that Reaper's order was a caution meant for the entire night. The hatch was opened and frigid air rushed in, along with a soft, cold light. Reaper hoisted himself swiftly and expertly through the hatch, and as the shadow followed he was almost frozen himself by the site that greeted him.

Massive trees stretched high above his head against a black vault of sky riddled with tiny pinpoints of light. Stars. He hadn't imagined that they could look so…distant. Each one of the tiny lights was almost immeasurably far away, and yet to him, each seemed a doorway, a window, a glimpse of far off space. The shadow hadn't ever really dwelt on stars, on how they would look, but now he almost wished he had. Perhaps then he would need to spend less time on it now.

He had only a moment to look around and marvel before he saw that Reaper was heading off through the trees without waiting for him, or even giving an indication that he should follow. The shadow fell into step behind his teacher, but he could not stop himself from glancing around as he walked, gazing with an almost insatiable hunger at the cold, silent world he was passing through.

The air was frigid, and before they had reached their destination, the shadow's gloved hands were so cold he had to tuck them underneath his armpits for warmth. His feet were feeling uncomfortable and strange, and he found himself moving his toes around constantly in his soft shoes to keep them from going numb.

If it had been Demon he was following, the shadow would have told her about these unfamiliar sensations he was feeling. He would have enquired whether she felt the cold as strongly, or whether this was something you got used to after a while. If one of his friends had been with him, even if they were unable to talk to one another, there would be a sense of camaraderie. They could have exchanged glances, speaking with their eyes; a language very familiar in the silence which pervaded Darkness' halls.

But he was following Reaper, and so he was alone in the cold air. He followed a shadow among shadows. Reaper was not really like a _person_, but something else, something _different_. In all his time at this place, the shadow had never seen Reaper smile, laugh or speak socially to anyone. He gave his orders and instructions in a cold, expressionless voice; just as cold, the shadow mused, as the winter night he now walked through, but not nearly as alive, not nearly as free.

Reaper halted, and the shadow stopped as well. The shadow was easily six feet back, farther into the trees, but he could see that Reaper's head was bowed in the silvery moonlight, his hands hanging limply.

Then he turned around stiffly, and the shadow could see that something was wrong. Reaper generally looked inscrutable, but now there was a stiffness about him, as though all of his muscles were strained, fighting a seizure. His face was twisted and fighting with itself, fury and terror contorting his handsome features.

The shadow took a half step backwards from the monster before him. And it was a monster. Reaper leaped for him as though he really were the angel of death, claiming another victim, and the shadow found himself fighting back desperately. At first there was no time for thought, only desperate blocks and feints, useless counter attacks and hopeless retreats. Then a thought floated across his mind, in between a sharp kick and a vicious punch, and it was calming as his first sight of the star studded sky. _This is not a trick, but Darkness wouldn't send me up here to be killed._ The thought overrode his panic and he changed his tactic instantly, driving into the older boy and sending him flying into a tree.

Then the shadow stood, panting but without relaxing his stance, and waited for his adversary's next move. Slowly the crumpled form beneath the tree rose and batted at himself where the snow had gathered and stuck to his black gi, sparkling in the moonlight. As he patted himself it scattered into separate sparkling specks. Falling stars. Then Reaper was before him again, severe and impassive. He nodded minutely.

"Decent," he said, even while his eyes flashed that puzzling loathing. Then he turned and headed back to the entrance, motioning for the shadow to follow him once again.

* * *

This was the shadow's first experience above, but he went up many times after that. Sometimes he trained with Demon, sometimes with another of the full shadows, but it was his sessions with Reaper that taught him the most. The shadow didn't know why, couldn't possibly fathom the mystery, but Reaper was different during those sessions.

When they were below, the older boy acted the way he always had. He was cold, distant and disapproving, but always calm, as though nothing could ruffle his feathers. During the drills in the forest, however, it was another story. Above ground, Reaper seemed to gain a vitality he had always lacked, as long as the shadow had known him. His attacks were vicious and deadly still, but now there was a ferocity behind his blows and also…a hint of some old terror. It was almost as though he fought, not against a trainee, but against a malevolent force which haunted him.

At dawn after these instances, when he crawled under his blankets, trembling with fatigue, muscles often crying out piteously, the shadow would struggle with what he had seen. He was generally too weary to give over much time for speculation before sleep claimed him, but he could not stop thinking. This change was a mystery, and in the manner of all mysteries, it fascinated him and demanded to be solved.

And no matter how tired he was, the shadow went to sleep as the sun rose with a picture floating before his eyes. Reaper's face, as he saw it now, shrouded in darkness.

* * *

There were many mysteries in his life now, and not the least of these was that distinction. His life_ now_. He had not always lived as he did, or else why could he not remember it? And yet, the mysteries which surrounded him were mysterious in themselves. Whenever the shadow stopped to think about them, to try and puzzle them out he found he could not. When he tried to focus on them he would seem to lose interest, or their was so much he had to do and not enough time, or else his thoughts would shift to something someone had told him earlier in the day. Then he would forget about the mysteries, the questions, until the next time.

However, this only increased the mystery for the shadow, and he found himself attempting more and more to unravel them as time went on, and he trained and slept and ate and talked to his friends. And the more he knew the more he didn't know, but it was all put aside when he went above and felt the wind on his face, and thought he could hear the moonlight as it fell softly over him.

And then something happened. It was important in and of itself, but its true significance lay in the things which happened after it. Perhaps it could not be called the beginning of those things, since it had no direct relation to any of them, but nevertheless, it was an important change in the shadow's life and seemed to open his mind to new possibilities, at least indirectly.

His friend was granted her name.

All shadows started out the same, as novices. At this stage they were simply shadows. They were addressed in this wise, and thought of themselves as they were; inexperienced, nameless, impotent. A shadow was granted a name only when Darkness himself decided that they had finished their training, and that he or she was suited to begin working in the outside world. It was not a large ceremony, and few of the trainees even knew what in entailed. What was rumored, in those endless cycles of gossip which spiral through every group of people, no matter their age or occupation, was that you met with Darkness, and that he presented you with your name, which made you an individual, and a set of black clothes in place of the trainee grays, which marked you as a member of the group. All named shadows, together.

The morning his friend received her name followed one of the nights wherein the shadow had not been required to train above ground in the snowy woods. Therefore, he was up before the far away sun, and had plenty of time to notice that she was missing.

"Do you have any idea where she could be?" the shadow whispered to his other friend. The younger boy shook his head, continuing to spoon up his porridge.

"She wasn't above ground last night," he whispered back. "So she should be here. Do you think she's in trouble?"

The shadow scanned the rows of long tables. "No," he said. "She hasn't done anything, and we would have known about it."

"Well, maybe she got hurt."

The shadow thought about that while he finished his meal. It seemed the most likely possibility, but for some reason it worried him. He was still fretting about it as he finished eating and stood to leave the room. He glanced toward the tables where the named shadows sat, and then stopped and stared. Because there she was. She was sitting at the end of one of the long tables, the soft, grayish hair which could belong to no one else floating over her shoulders.

The shadow felt a confusing medley of emotions tumble through him. He was vastly relieved that she was all right and profoundly happy for her that she had earned her name. And yet, he was furious, almost shaking with the force of his anger because he stood here, watching her from across the room, and he wasn't able to go up and congratulate her.

He was forbidden from approaching her table, and from speaking to her here. The shadow had never hated anything of Darkness' design before, hadn't even known it was possible, but now something churned deep inside him, a painful energy, and he didn't know what else to call it.

The shadow unclenched his fists and took a deep breath, squashing the anger into a hot, sore ball deep in his stomach. Slowly he turned and left the room. It was another mystery, why he felt this way. Another mystery with no answer.

* * *

That is chapter four! I hope everyone enjoyed it and is looking forward to the next chapter, which should be out shortly after the next update of Return of Bad Boy, which is coming soon. What's the deal with Reaper? Well, we will have to see…

As always, please give me feedback on how I'm doing. It encourages me, particularly when I'm postponing something I should be doing, to write. ;)

See you all soon!


	5. Phantom

Darkness: Master of Shadows chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Fillmore. I'm just renting him. For no money, and no profit.

Hey guys. I'm back again with another chapter I'm sorry it's been so long. Excuses are on my profile. I really like this one, mostly because it sounded so cool in my head. But let's see what you all think of it, shall we?

Thank you so much to my lovely reviewers, and please enjoy the chapter.

* * *

"He was a strait-up ghost. He could go anywhere, steal anything."

Sunny, _A Forgotten Yesterday_

* * *

The shadow waited for her in the corridor, outside of the hall. As usual, the hallway, although well lit, had the appearance of dimness, the light seeming to fade into the dark gray walls and floor. He leaned back against one wall and let his pounding head rest against the cool metal. When he opened his eyes, there she was.

So she had heard him.

The shadow's first impulse was to brush past her and escape to his room, but he couldn't, not with her looking at him like that. They both stood silently, staring at each other. Lunch had not yet ended, and the others were probably all still eating and enjoying their spare allotment of leisure. The hall was still, empty.

"What is your name," he asked finally.

"Mist." The word drifted slowly between them and the shadow seemed to feel it gently touch his face.

"I've been missing you," he said. "We spent a lot of time together and suddenly…I didn't know even where you were."

She nodded, "I know. I'm sorry. I haven't had a chance for anything since I was named, but I've missed you too." Her eyes were large, and in them he saw that she was sorry, sorry but not ashamed. And he understood that she had been doing her duty, and he must continue to do his. "Listen," she said then. She leant closer to him and her silky hair fell around her face. "We won't be able to see each other much for a while, and you must focus on your training until you receive your name. It will be much easier then." She held out one delicate paw, and he took it in his dark one.

"Will you still be my friend?" he asked seriously.

"Yes." She would too. He looked into her eyes and saw _her_. She was different, but also the same as she had always been. He knew she wouldn't forget him.

"Goodbye Mist," he said, trying her name out for himself. It suited her. "Thanks." He would keep working diligently, and he would see her soon enough.

* * *

Day followed night and night returned once again, but to the shadows below the surface the endless cycle of light and dark was of little consequence. All that mattered was their training, advancing until they could one day take up their name and move into full service of Darkness. The shadow saw Mist occasionally, and thought about her much more frequently, but he too was focused on his training. He knew that for him the completion was giddily close. He had been to the city now several times. He learned how to stalk the dark that surrounded lampposts outside their circle of brightness. He could travel over the roofs with no more noise than other inhabitants of the night. He could pass within two feet of pedestrians without them noticing so much as a disturbance in the air. When he struck he was swift, deadly and silent. He had not killed yet, but knew he would be ready when that particular test presented itself.

It was the night of his fifth successful robbery. In company with one of his teachers, a tall, wiry boy named shade he had just returned and was making his way through the familiar maze of corridors. Shade told him to go on back to his room, that he would take the goods, over one thousand dollars in jewelry, to the drop off room. The shadow was glad because he was almost impossibly tired. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his room and collapse into the soothing black of sleep. Even the mysteries were not bothering him this morning.

But as he headed down the corridor he was met by two older boys; named shadows. The shadow stood respectfully to the side to allow the superior boys to pass, but instead they stopped in front of him. They nodded to him civilly, and the shadow nodded back. He had felt a faint stirring of uneasiness for a moment, and he wasn't completely certain why. However, this feeling was dispelled now, for although they were serious, as all shadows must be on duty, there was an air about them of tightly reigned excitement. He felt his heart speed up slightly, but the feeling was not at all unpleasant.

"You are to come with us," the older boy said.

The shadow nodded. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"To see Darkness. He wants to speak to you," the boy answered. And then the shadow knew. It wasn't only the fact that Darkness very spoke to shadows individually, had never done so to him. It was also some feeling deep within him that made his throat ache, but pleasantly. He followed the others silently and impassively, but he felt as though he were floating, and when the little voice piped up and wondered 'have you never had a name before now? Why can't you remember?' he found it easier than usual to ignore.

They came to Darkness' private office, and the older shadows left him at the door. The shadow knocked gingerly, his stomach flip-flopping inside him. Maybe he was wrong. He couldn't think of another reason Darkness would send for him, but still.

"Come in," Darkness called. The shadow drew a deep breath and opened the door.

He had never been in here before, and the room struck the shadow as both impressive and mysterious. The walls were wooden, a rare thing in this underground labyrinth, but of such a dark, brown they were almost black, and polished so that they reflected the light of the various lamps like smooth, slow water. The desk was of the same wood and was carved intricately around the edges, with swirling patterns worked into its legs. It too glowed like backlit glass. The floor was covered by a thick, black carpet, black and gray armchair stood in front of a black marble fireplace where the flames reflected and seemed to lick at their silky surfaces. Black bookcases held old tomes bound in dull-coloured leather, silk and cloth. Pictures hung on the walls, dark, dreary paintings with dull colours. A war scene. A stealthy thief on a night of wind and rain. A snow shrouded shack at dusk. A heavy, black grandfather clock presided over everything with the air of a malevolent uncle.

The overall impression was of elegance and danger, but for the shadow, it was only an impression. Details would come later. At the moment his whole attention was on Darkness, who stood behind his desk with a wineglass in one hand and a black book in the other.

"Come forward boy." Darkness' voice was gentle, though firm. Strangely, the shadow found that he was reluctant to move from the doorway. Feelings were bouncing around inside of him, half turning into thoughts, solidifying, than breaking apart to whirl through his frame once more with giggles, teasing and shrieks of delight as he tried futilely to catch and make some sort of sense out of them.

He didn't know it, but he was uneasy because of the way Darkness was looking at him, almost like he was seizing him up. Perhaps the shadow found the look familiar. He couldn't remember a single time when he had experienced it before now, but still the feeling was there. However, in the next instant he had pushed the bothersome feeling away. This was his moment. Besides, he knew he should revere and trust Darkness, it was as ingrained in him as the need to breathe. Whatever reason Darkness had for looking at him like that, it must be right, just as whatever Darkness wanted him to do would be best.

The shadow walked slowly closer to the polished desk and raised his eyes respectfully to meet those of Darkness.

"I am very pleased with you my shadow," Darkness said.

"Thank you Darkness."

The tall man leaned forward over the desk, his eyes gleaming from under hooded brows. Darkness continued, "You have exceeded all expectations. You have trained in stealth, speed and efficiency." The man's voice was soft yet intent. You and I, he seemed to say. We share a secret, but only I know what it is. Darkness looked the shadow over approvingly once more, than nodded slightly and his mouth smoothed itself into a smile. "You are deadly," he said.

The shadow did not speak. He felt almost hypnotized from the sweet possessiveness in Darkness' voice, in his inescapable eyes. Perhaps he could have moved if he willed it, but the shadow was very far from that. He felt, not proud, but fulfilled. Darkness' praise made him whole and erased those treacherous questions that lurked in the corners of his mind in search of a weakness where they could stick a knife and _twist_.

He hung completely on Darkness' words, anticipation almost sweet enough to be painful as Darkness seemed to pull him closer, wrap around him and swallow him up into the ecstasy of endless night.

"Shadow," Darkness said. "Do you swear to serve me in all things?"

"I do," the shadow replied instantly.

"Will you fight for me, live for me and die for me?" Darkness asked.

"Yes."

"Will you kill for me if I order it?"

"Yes."

"Then," Darkness said, "You are reborn." He came around the desk and stood before the shadow, laying one hand on the thin shoulder. "You are silent as a shade," he said softly, so softly. "You slip silently by without a sound. No walls can keep you out and nothing is safe from you. You vanish without a trace.

"You are Phantom." Darkness fixed the boy before him with another long look from his gleaming eyes, than drew back, breaking the spell. "You may go Phantom," he said after a moment. "Go to your room and sleep, and fear no night terrors, for you are one."

Phantom felt as though he were waking from a dream. His name seemed to stand alone before his eyes, hard as rock. "Thank you Darkness," he said with a dry mouth. Then he turned and exited the chamber.

He went back to his room and closed the door still pondering on the word. Phantom. _Phantom_. Was this who he was, truly? It must be him. It was his name. Darkness had named him. He was…Phantom.

He got undressed, from gray trainee garb that suddenly felt too young for him, and at the same time infinitely comforting, into gray pajamas. He climbed beneath the covers and stretched out as far down as his legs would go. He realized then that his muscles didn't want to relax into sleep. He was tired, but his mind didn't want to settle itself. He drew a deep breath, feeling his lungs expanding gloriously and closed his eyes against the darkness outside into an even blacker field within.

Then a thought appeared, swimming out of the darkness. It was something he had not thought of before, which had not occurred to him since he had received the summons. _I can see Mist again_, he realized. _I can really see her, and we can be together, as friends. And no one will separate us again._

Smiling slightly in his darkened room, Phantom slept, buoyed up by thoughts of the future.

* * *

That's all and thanks for reading. Like my description of the scene in Darkness' study? Think it was too much? I really was trying to create a certain mood, and I hope I succeeded.

Next chapter introduces Ingrid! I hope to have it up fairly soon, so until then you could always pass the time by clicking on that review button…


	6. Desire For Knowledge

Darkness: Master of Shadows chapter 6

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this story so far, as well as everyone else who is enjoying it! My reviewers keep my spirits up and inspire me to keep writing. Big thanks to you guys!

Hey there guys, we're on to chapter six, and the first appearance of Ingrid. Please tell me what you think of her, if she's in character, etc. and also what you think of the chapter.

Sorry for the wait, and enjoy!

* * *

"'I was 'seen,' cried Arrietty. "I couldn't help being 'seen.' Papa was 'seen.' I don't think it's all as awful as you're trying to make out. I don't think human beans are all that bad–"'

- _The Borrowers_, page 119 by Mary Norton.

* * *

Phantom slipped across the rooftops as silent and undetectable as his namesake. He was heading back from the outskirts of the city tonight, from the abode of an old scholar of paleontology. He had not been there to steal anything, not tonight, and was therefore alone. He was only making a survey of the house and grounds for future reference. It had been raining earlier, but now the night was cool and sweet.

The family was currently going through one of their routine periods in which they stopped stealing for a while and let the cities and towns around them settle down and feel safe again, but that didn't mean that they stopped training and preparing for future thefts.

Phantom's mind was peacefully free of thoughts as he skimmed along the rooftops. He was content merely feeling the movement of his body slipping in and out of shadows. His softly shod feet touched roofs and lifted off again, his breath whispered in and out silently.

He was not thinking, but Mist was in his mind anyway. She seemed to float gently in front of the rain-drenched rooftops, the draggled scraps of trash and sleeping pigeons. His eyes searched the darkness through her smile and the distant stars glinted from her flowing hair. But he wasn't thinking about her, and he certainly wasn't dwelling on unsolvable puzzles this night. His mind was calm and clear. Yet still, he slipped.

It was a mistake; that was all. His foot alighted on a piece of slick trash, a slimy label, at the same time as his eyes had strayed upward to gage his jump to the next rooftop. His feet flew out from under him and he fell.

If he had been an ordinary teenager Phantom would have died, or at least broken some bones from his tumble off the roof. But he wasn't, of course. His fingers caught the edge of a window sill, slowing his fall. It was still a long fall, and he landed rolling with a sharp intake of breath as one ankle turned. It probably wasn't that bad, but he crouched for a moment to inspect it and to give himself a chance to catch his breath.

"Oh my gosh! Are you okay?"

The voice was unexpected, he had not yet had a chance to give the alley's entrance more than a glance, and at the sound Phantom sprang up, ignoring the pain in his ankle, and turned to confront his opponent. It had been a girl's voice, but it was a person, not a shadow. Her skin was very pale and she was dressed in a solid black dress and boots. Her hair was black too, with a slight sheen to it which showed up in the light from the street at her back, but her face was in shadow.

It took less than a moment for Phantom to discover all this and determine his best course of action. The alley was a dead end, but while he was glancing up in search of a fire escape he heard her gasp, and then had to duck to the side as she ran at him. He could have smashed her into the wall, he almost did. But as she turned toward him again her face came into the light and what he saw there stopped Phantom as cold as the rain drenched walls looming over him.

He had never seen her before. Every curve and line of her face was unknown, a stranger, but that was expected. What stopped Phantom was her expression. Her eyes, her cheek, her whole face was alight with her own inner joy. She looked, the thought crossed his mind, as though a dream she had long given up had just come true. She spoke, and there was a little laugh in her voice, hiding somewhere behind the word.

"Fillmore," she said, "It's you," and she moved toward him once more.

_She's mistaken me for someone_, Phantom realized. He kept his eyes on this strange girl and moved slowly back toward the entrance of the alley. She had stopped moving toward him now and her large eyes reflected worry.

"Fillmore," she said again hesitantly. "Are you…okay?"

He didn't want to hurt her, but he would not continue standing here while she looked at him that way, as though he were someone like her; one of the faceless multitudes he watched every night. He wanted to tell her that she was mistaking him for this person she was missing, but he could not, must not, talk to her. Letting her see him was bad enough.

He had been moving slowly, but now Phantom turned away from the girl's worry lined face and ducked around the corner out of the alley. There were many pedestrians so early in the evening, but as Phantom had discovered on previous occasions, none of them spared him a glance as he blended into their midst. He heard running feet from the alley behind him, then the girl's clear, worried voice.

"Fillmore! Fillmore, come back!" Then, softly, not quite hopefully, "Fillmore?" she said to the unresponsive street.

_She's not happy anymore_, Phantom thought.

He made his way back to the rooftops as swiftly as possible, but he didn't head off along his lofty path at once. The girl was no longer calling, but he could see her easily enough as he crouched on the edge of the rooftop. She had wrapped her pale arms around herself and was walking slowly along the damp, littered sidewalk. She was surrounded by people, and yet she looked so alone amid the multitude. And while he was watching her, a small part of Phantom was telling him, quietly, that he would not be missed for an hour and a half yet, plenty of time to see where she was going.

Without really thinking about it, Phantom started to follow her. She moved slowly, so she was no challenge to an experienced shadow, especially since his ankle no longer bothered him. It must not be sprained after all. He kept pace with her for the most part, flitting over the wet, filthy rooftops carefully and easily. After about ten minutes of following the girl through various streets, sometimes on the roofs, sometimes on the ground, Phantom saw her destination. The house itself wasn't unusual, although the front lawn sported a surprising number of lawn decorations, but this was clearly where she was headed. She walked up the steps and stopped at a door speckled with wan moonlight. Phantom remained where he was across the street and merely watched her. The white door opened at her knock, revealing a slightly overweight man in his mid sixties with salt and pepper hair combed back from his scalp. He was too old to be a parent, possibly he was a grandparent or some other relative of hers.

From his vantage point, Phantom was too far away to hear their conversation, but he watched as the girl walked into the house and the man closed the door after her.

She was gone.

And now he knew where she lived.

Although, Phantom really wasn't sure why he should care. She knew nothing about him, and therefore was not a threat of any kind. She had probably realized that he wasn't the person she was looking for, and he would probably never see her again. That was the way it should be.

Abruptly, Phantom turned and headed back the way he had come, still thinking.

* * *

When he arrived back home Phantom was feeling tired. The rain's dampness had gotten into his skin and he felt cold. He was resolutely not thinking of the girl he had seen and followed back to her house. He didn't understand why that look in her eyes had affected him so much. Maybe it had reminded him of the way he had felt when Mist first earned her name and he had worried, if only briefly, that she had forgotten him. And then the way he had felt when he realized that she never would.

"Phantom?"

He looked up at the soft, familiar voice and saw that Mist had been waiting for him.

"Oh, hey Mist." A smile found its way to his lips at the sight of her. Here was something good; something about his life that he could understand. She was not a mystery, not unexplained or forbidden. She was his friend, and apart from Darkness, Phantom sometimes felt that she was his life as well. Mist smiled back at him, her head tilted to the side in that peculiar way of hers.

"Hey yourself," she responded. "I just got back about twenty minutes ago, and I thought that, if you weren't too tired, maybe we could talk for a while."

"Sure." Phantom happily dismissed thoughts of the strange girl from his mind for the time being. He followed Mist into his room and seated himself beside her on the edge of his bed. The gray blanket felt rough against his arms as he lay back on the welcome softness and he let out a contented sigh. Here was right. Here was where he belonged.

He rarely got to spend time with Mist because they were always so busy, and he would have been happy to talk with her all night, but they both knew that they had to be at their sharpest during the daytime. So after only twenty minutes, Mist departed for her own room, and Phantom changed into his soft, gray pajamas and slipped between welcome sheets.

* * *

He slept well and soundly and was up at his appointed time as usual. He trained, ate and carried out his duties, snatching some time with Mist and his other friends when possible, and for several days that was all he did.

But he was, and had always been, someone who just couldn't ignore things that he didn't understand, and lately that girl was one of them. For some reason he was fascinated with her. She occupied his thoughts whenever he lay down to sleep or had a breather in between sessions and tasks. He felt that he had to see her again, if only so he could have a moment to figure her out. She was like no one he had ever seen before, and that look in her eyes….

So when, several days later, an opportunity presented itself, Phantom was heading back to the house where he had last seen her. He didn't really feel that he had another option.

This night was calm and cool. The moon was not visible, but the stars could be dimly seen through the deadening interference of the city. Phantom was out on a solo training session, so he was technically free to go wherever he wished in the city, but he couldn't help feeling like a criminal as he stopped on the rooftop next to her house. The house was mostly dark, but there was a light shining from a basement window, and also a lighted window at the back of the house on the left side. From his experience, Phantom knew that the latter was more likely to be a bedroom. But was it _her_ bedroom?

He dropped to the ground softly and made his way over to the side of the house just below the window. Slowly he grasped the dark, worn brick and pulled himself up the house's wall, one hand at a time. It was an old house, fortunately, and the bricks were jagged, which provided many easy handholds for his experienced hands. When he reached the ledge below the window, Phantom shifted to the side so that he could peer inside without alerting the occupant.

He had been right; there she was.

The girl was sitting on her bed, the pale blue counterpane wrapped around her, and reading. The light colour looked strange on her, Phantom thought. Her skin was so pale that it seemed to get lost before the background of blue, and only her hair stood out, black and real still. Now that he was here he didn't know what he was going to do. She sat there, oblivious to his presence behind the glass. She was simply reading. She looked sad and pensive, true, but Phantom saw none of the animation in her face which had so captured his interest before. She looked more like a normal person tonight, rather than someone hiding a mystery. But of course she had not seen him yet.

_Yet! What am I thinking?_

Phantom shook himself mentally. He could not let her see him, ever. It was out of the question. Coming to see her was one thing. He could at least pretend to himself that he was doing that as part of his training. But no shadow could ever let himself be _seen_ by anyone. That other night had been an accident, a mistake, and was therefore forgivable. To _let_ her see him was the ultimate betrayal of everything.

It was a betrayal of Darkness himself.

But waiting out here and watching her was not solving anything. And he didn't just want her to _see_ him, he wanted her to _talk_ to him. He wanted to ask her things and hear her replies. He wanted to discover that look again, to find out about the mystery in her life which might not be as unsolvable as his own. And he wanted to know why she seemed as real as the shadows, why she seemed…the same.

_Darkness forgive me, I want to _know_ her._

But he could not hang there at the window for long. Even _his_ fingers would grow sore and numb after a while.

He should leave, he _would_ leave. He wanted to _know_, but that was just too bad. He would train for a while, and then he would leave and return home and sleep and do his duty and he would never return here again.

Phantom knocked on the windowpane.

* * *

Author Note:

Woo, cliffhanger! (Sort of.)

I've just noticed this, but I seem to have people spy on other people a lot in my stories. This is also the third instance I have written wherein someone sneaks in via someone else's window. (The other two are in Kim Possible fics.) This strikes me as rather amusing. I swear I am not trying to promote this kind of behavior; it just seems to work so well. ;)

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I will try to get the next one out soon. We are now entering the juicy center of the story! Now, off to study for my exam. Oh, and I always accept poor, lonely reviews that are floating around in people's minds. You know, just so you know. ;)


	7. Similarities

DMOS chap 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Fillmore or any of his affiliates, but Mist, Darkness and Reaper are mine, as is this charming storyline. (I own a lot of minor ocs too!)

Here is the next chapter for my several readers! Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed. I love to write, but I also love to find out how I'm doing and know that others are enjoying themselves too.

And if you'll notice, we're right back to not using someone's name, because the chapter is from Phantom's point of view. I can't escape, it seems. ;)

And now I won't take up any more of your time…

Enjoy.

* * *

"There it is, the unicorn thought, feeling the first spidery touch of sorrow on the inside of her skin. That is how it will be to travel with a mortal, all the time."

- _The Last Unicorn_, page 44, by Peter S. Beagle.

* * *

Even much later, Phantom was never certain what made him do it. It was like an instinctual response and his hand moved almost without his own volition. Immediately he was stricken with horror at what he had done, but by then it was far too late.

At his tap the girl had started up from under her blanket and was staring at him through the window. And suddenly, Phantom was fighting desperately not to duck out of sight and escape over the rooftops. It wasn't as if she could catch him if he wanted to get away, and right now, right this second, he wanted to so much. Every particle in him was screaming to go, to get away, to not let her eyes rest on him for one second longer. Well, perhaps not every particle.

Deep inside him, Phantom felt that familiar yearning for knowledge which somehow managed to keep him rooted to the brickwork like a strand of ivy, even while his instincts pulled at him to flee.

The girl made her way slowly over to the window, her large eyes riveted on his face. And it was also her eyes which allowed him to stay. She had that same hopeful light in her face which had lived there so briefly before, in the alley.

Her pale fingers fumbled with the catch of the window for a moment, but her captivating eyes never left his hidden ones. Did she guess? The thought trickled through Phantom's mind, crawling like frozen maple syrup. Did she realize that her eyes were the only thing keeping him stationary before her? If she had looked away, he would lose his nerve, would flee, would be gone, but she never wavered, even as the window rose, creaking, between them.

"Are you coming in?" the girl asked softly.

She moved away slightly then, and Phantom drew a shallow breath and slipped inside. His feet landed noiselessly on the cream coloured carpet, but his heart was thudding as loud as thunder in his ears. Inside her room he was less conspicuous, but in a much worse position. She moved back a little farther, as though she sensed his fear and Phantom forced himself to calm down. He moved from the window, away and slightly to the side, but he still kept himself between the opening and the girl. If this was a trap, they would not find him easy to take. But he knew, somehow, that it wasn`t.

He could see it in her eyes.

Why were _his_ eyes so fascinating to her, he wondered. She couldn't see them, of course, but only the reflective surfaces of his glasses. She could not see his eyes, but her gaze still locked onto his, freezing him in place. Almost as though she knew what lay behind.

If he heard anyone else climbing the stairs, Phantom would be gone in a heartbeat, before they had even glimpsed him, but he sensed no trap from the girl herself. Not because she was merely a child, but because of that _need_ which he felt more than he saw and knew more than he felt.

"Fillmore?" the girl said, but it was a question this time, not shouted joyously like before, and Phantom looked away for only a moment, almost ashamed that he had to disappoint her.

"No," he answered. His own voice sounded strange to his ears as he spoke. She looked disappointed, but her eyes still showed recognition.

"But I remember you," she said. He wasn't certain what he had expected her to do at this pronouncement, but he had perhaps assumed that she would believe him. Silly, he supposed, to expect anything from one of her kind.

"I'm sorry," he said, stiffly now, disappointed himself. He had reacted to her as he would to one of his fellow shadows. He had allowed her to see what he felt. Mistake.

She must have seen that she was losing him, because she put her hand out. It was not expected, and therefore a threat. Phantom darted back almost before even he could register. His hands came up reflexively as he put his back to the window. In another moment he would be gone, out into the night.

"Wait, please!" she begged, and then when he didn't stop she whispered "I…just want to know what happened to my friend."

Why did she have to say that? Now Phantom couldn't quite bring himself to leave, just like that. It was too much like his own thoughts at certain times, including tonight. But in spite of this, his voice when he spoke was as dry as old bones.

"Why would I know anything about your friend?" He knew it sounded cruel and almost regretted the tone, if not the words, but everything about this whole night was wrong. This dwelling was wrong, this girl was wrong, coming here was wrong, and he almost felt that _he_ was wrong. He certainly didn't feel _right_ the way he did when he trained or swept through the dark city. He knew that Darkness would not want him to be here; he could feel it in his bones. And so Phantom bristled because she didn't _know_ anything about him, or she would _know_ that he couldn't possibly be anyone to her, or know anyone that she had ever known. They were inalterably separated as though cut off with a wall of stone.

She was not of his kind, and it bristled at the base of his neck, behind his eyes and deep down in his chest. The feeling in his chest was worst of all, almost as though his insides were slowly burning. It was all wrong.

And of course he was still here, still talking to her. And he didn't really know why.

All of this took only a moment, and Phantom forced himself to calm down. He would at least face the girl, if he could not make himself leave. The night air whispered through the window at his back, and Phantom could feel the shadowy darkness coolly caressing his bare arms. He raised his eyes to meet hers once again, even though it was hard. He would not admit to his weakness. Shadows did not cower.

"I know you don't know me," the girl said, so softly it was almost as though she did not want to be heard. She met his eyes, but did not seem to want to. "But I feel…that I know you. I would say that you are my friend, but there's nothing I can do to prove it to you, and I don't know if that would help anyway. But I do know that…" She paused and sighed wearily. "That you remind me of him, of Fillmore. And I can't shake this feeling, that you might be able to help me find him."

"What happened to your friend?" Phantom found himself asking. He was thinking of Mist. Of what he would feel if she were…gone. He should at least hear what this girl had to say.

"He disappeared," she said. "He was kidnapped, two years ago." Her mouth tightened slightly in her pale face. Everyone thinks he's dead. I…" Muscles constricted in her slender throat. "I thought he was dead, until I saw you." The words came from deep inside her and came free with a wrench of pain that Phantom could almost feel. _I've caused her pain_, Phantom thought. _I still am_. The realization was not at all pleasant. Of course, he had not really done anything, only slipped, stupidly. And she had been there to see it.

Why did he even care? He had never cared, never even thought about the cities' denizens before, and neither had anyone else he had met. But then, of course, he had never spoken to one before, or seen one as a person.

"I'm sorry about your friend," Phantom said again, only this time he actually meant it. The girl raised her pale face from under her dark hair and gave him a small smile. Phantom was sorry, but what he didn't understand was… "How did you think I could help?" he asked. The girl seemed nervous now, and her eyes seemed to be having a difficult time finding his.

"I was wondering if you could tell me about yourself, and where you live," she said at last. "Maybe I could find out what happened to him…"

"No," Phantom said coldly. It was not a word, but a wall of black, frozen metal. Impregnable and final as death. He did not move toward the window again; it was not that she was threatening, just…perverse. This was something which she did not understand, or else she would never have voiced it, but he still felt slightly ill from her suggestion. She winced slightly then, as though aware that she had said something wrong, and fluttered on hastily.

"Then stay here and let me tell you about my life and…about Fillmore." Her voice faltered and softened slightly. "If nothing else, I want you to know what he was like." Her voice was filled with an old grief which she must have reflected on so often that it had become threadbare from all the picking, but still painful. Phantom sighed. He felt tired suddenly, and the wrongness felt as though it were scalding his insides.

"I have to go," he told her. It was true, truer even than he could understand consciously, but he still felt guilty for saying it, and now it was he who could not meet her eyes. His own were hiding behind the safety of his glasses, but they still felt naked. He felt like a betrayer.

He moved away from her and she let him this time. When he reached the window and felt his freedom close on his back Phantom forced himself to look at her. There was a growing desperation twisting slowly through her clear eyes, and she was hugging herself with her arms, against the chill of his departure. Almost against his will, Phantom opened his mouth and found himself speaking, although he did not quite understand why. There was so much about this night that he did not understand.

"I will come back," he said. "But only if you are the only one waiting for me." He watched her eyes for understanding and saw it take the place of the rising desperation. Hope flickered in her thin cheeks and about her mouth.

Somehow, Phantom found her hope almost more frightening than her desperation. Hope was dangerous. It was a fragile thing, and yet far too powerful to be safe. It was partly because of hope that he was here tonight, and that he would be coming back. He forced himself to keep speaking. "I know you think I'm your friend," he told her. "Well, nothing that I can say is going to dissuade you, I know that. At least not yet. And I know nothing about…all of this." Phantom gestured around at the room, at the girl herself, even though he meant much more than that. He only hoped that she understood. This next part was _difficult_. Phantom took a deep breath of the air which still caressed him from the open window, and felt the cool, mysterious scents strengthen him, as always.

"I will come back," he said again, placing one hand on the painted wood of the window ledge behind him. The paint was old, and Phantom could feel its rough, cracked surface beneath his fingers. He found her eyes again and locked them with his hidden ones. _She must understand_. "I also want to know," he said. Then he turned and slipped out the window and into the soft, sweet, familiar air. Outside, Phantom clung to the bricks of the girl's house for a moment, and watched the window in case he saw what he thought he would.

Sure enough, after an instant, the girl's head appeared in the window, her ebony hair stark against the light of her room.

"Wait," she said, almost whispered into the night air. Phantom didn't move, aware that she was watching him. "I'll try to be here, when you come back," she said softly. He had promised something, and perhaps she felt that she should do the same. She started to turn then, to end this strange little encounter that was so much more, but she stopped again, only for a moment.

"My name is Ingrid," she said into the darkness. Then she did turn, and Phantom heard the _swish_ and _thud_ of the window being closed, and the _snick_ as the blind was drawn down, hiding the light of her room.

And Phantom was left alone in the darkness to contemplate this…odd revelation. Why had she told him her name? Was she truly so desperate for him to return that she would risk showing him her identity? Her trust in someone she knew nothing about was not only foolish, it was staggering. Or perhaps he was reading too much into it. She was not a shadow, and it would be a mistake to apply motives to her the way he would to his fellows. Perhaps names had an entirely different meaning to her.

This was something else which Phantom would discover.

He slipped away from her house and onto the rooftops once again. He knew he would return; he had really known it all along. Even though he felt contempt for her to some degree, simply because of all that she was ignorant of, of all that she did not understand, he still had the unsettling feeling that, despite it all, she was like him.

This girl, Ingrid, was a mystery, and Phantom could not bare mysteries. His life was filled with so many that he could not possibly solve, it was more than relief to discover one which he might be able to.

The next days would pass quickly, he knew, if he had this to think of, and he would return. Not just because of the mystery anymore either. Phantom would come back to see Ingrid again, because he had promised.

Phantom slipped through the night like a detached wisp of cloud, heading home.

* * *

Thank goodness, Ingrid has a name now. That should be easier for a while. Yes; for a while. There will still be more sections of the story in which somebody is described without a name. It just has to happen that way.

In any case, I hope this chapter wasn't boring for anyone. I know it has a lot of introspection, which actually is a lot of this story. Yup, all about getting in Phantom's head.

Please let me know what you liked, and I'll see you soon. I'm out of school, but I still have lots of work for it to do, and I have also begun my summer job so…I will make sure that updates come more quickly in the future. Which I know isn't saying much. _Hides from thrown missiles and various weapons._ The next chapter is probably going to be longer as well because I have a lot of things which I want to squeeze into it. So, there's that.

Thanks for reading!


	8. An Endless Web

DMOS chap 8

Disclaimer: I do not own Fillmore. Isn't that a shame?

Hey guys, back again! We are getting to the juicy part of this story now, at least I think so, and soon we get to the part I've been dying to write since I first started planning this story. (Grins insanely). Of course, this means that it is also the hardest to write because I want it to be as perfect as it possibly can be, so this chapter was extremely difficult to write. I do hope I've made it believable, as well as enjoyable for all of you lovely readers. ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

"Quasimodo placed himself before those gaping jaws; he rose and fell with the swaying of the bell, inhaled its tremendous breath, gazed now at the abyss swarming with people like ants, two hundred feet below him, and now at the huge copper clapper which from second to second bellowed in his ear. That was the only speech which he could hear, the only sound that broke the universal silence reigning around him. He basked in it as a bird in the sunshine."

- _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ page 123, by Victor Hugo.

* * *

Phantom's days were never idle. Aside from his continued training and other duties, he and the other full shadows were in charge of teaching the new trainees. At this time, there were only four of these, three girls and one boy, and they were all relatively new. When Phantom had been a trainee himself, he remembered there being as many as twelve or thirteen at one time, but this was not the usual number.

The mysteries of his life still surrounded Phantom, but for the present, they had ceased to trouble him. They were eaten up, devoured whole, by his thoughts of Ingrid, and her mystery. These thoughts plagued him constantly, although he had not as yet found the time or courage for another expedition to her house. He wanted to go back, terribly, but it was this very longing he had that bothered him and made him nervous. Several times, in fact, Phantom entertained the notion of going to Darkness himself and confessing what he had done. He felt that he deserved nothing less than whatever punishment Darkness could set for him.

But he never did, and that was another thing that worried him.

All was confusion, and Ingrid most of all. Phantom had thought that he was hiding his feelings very well, but of course he didn't count on his friends, and particularly Mist. The two of them were still very close. They frequently went on missions together, a practice which seemed to be almost encouraged by Darkness, and they trained together almost every day.

And so of course, Mist would notice his preoccupation and wonder about it. He should have known, but he didn't, and so it came as a complete surprise to him when she stopped suddenly during training one afternoon and looked at him seriously.

"What's bothering you Phantom?" she asked in her soft voice. Phantom was taken aback.

"Nothing," he said, but perhaps not as definitely as he should have.

"Yeah, nothing," Mist said, mildly sarcastic. "Look Phantom, we've all noticed it, not just me. Ash thinks you're in love with somebody." She snorted slightly, then paused and her face became more serious. Mist took a silent step closer and laid one long-fingered hand on his narrow shoulder. "You're distracted; really distracted I mean. I know you hate not knowing what every little thing means all the time, but this seems like something more to me." She paused and looked at him helplessly. "You know," she said, looking at him now with a steady glint in her eye. "If there's something wrong you can always tell me." Phantom sighed heavily, as though taking all the weight of the world onto his narrow shoulders.

"There are some things I'm worried about," he said. "But right now, I really can't talk about them. I need to…understand them a little more before I put them into words." He smiled slightly. "But you know you're the first person I'll talk to when I can." Phantom nodded to his friend, trying to be as reassuring as he could, and then he headed off through the maze like-corridors. He knew Mist was dissatisfied, could almost picture her frowning behind him, but he had told the truth. He really couldn't talk about this, to anyone. He hoped Mist, Ash and the others would trust him until a time when he could.

That was all he could do.

And that night Phantom backtracked once more across the darkened rooftops to the bedroom window of the girl who called herself Ingrid. It would not be the last time.

* * *

"Here we are. That's me and that wa…is Fillmore. His last name, that is. His name's really Cornelius Fillmore, but everyone always called him by his last name. I…don't really know why."

Phantom stared tentatively at the open photo album and wasn't sure whether to believe her. It couldn't be possible, but the boy who gazed at him out of the picture did look incredibly like him. He had the same dark skin and angular face. The same knowing smirk flickered at his mouth. Phantom knew that smirk. He had worn one just like it many times. The boy in the photo was dressed in dark pants and a dark green shirt, accented by a bright orange sash across his chest. He stood outside somewhere in front of several tall, evergreen trees. Ingrid stood next to him, leaning slightly on the tree behind her. Both of them were smiling at the camera, but Ingrid's eyes were crinkled with laughter at some long ago amusement.

"How did you do this?" Phantom asked, unaware of the pain which trickled through his words. The present-day Ingrid shot him a startled glance, but Phantom didn't see it. He was still absorbed in the picture.

"This isn't a trick," Ingrid said. "I wouldn't do that! You _know_…" She broke off and shook her head violently.

"I know," Phantom said softly. He tore his eyes away from the baffling picture and turned to face the dark haired girl where she sat, curled up next to him on the lavender carpet. He felt, suddenly, as though he had to at least _try_ to explain. "I don't know how I know," He said to her fascinating eyes, "but I do know that, for some reason, you don't mean me any harm." He knew his own eyes must be radiating confusion and was once again furiously glad that they were hidden behind his glasses. "I…believe _you_," he continued slowly, working it out for himself as he spoke, "but I _can't_ believe _that_." He looked pointedly at the photo album.

"I know," Ingrid said with almost a sigh. "I can hardly believe it either."

"You think I'm him." It wasn't a question.

"You think you're not." Softly.

Two weeks ago Phantom would have bristled like a wounded boar, but now he only sighed, although inside he felt a nasty, hot feeling prickle in his chest. He glanced at Ingrid, but her eyes were downcast, apparently locked onto the picture. Phantom felt a sudden longing to be back home, and never to have met this girl at all. He wished he had never been introduced to this confusing world.

But then he shook the thought away like a spray of deadening water droplets. It wasn't him. In the past few weeks he had come here more than a few times, and every time he had felt this reluctance, this…regret, but every time he had dismissed it. Ingrid had asked his name only once, early on, but never again when she saw how upset he grew at her question. She was always very careful around him, and Phantom tried to dislike that, but somehow he couldn't.

Mostly they had just talked. He asked about her life, and she told him. Phantom could never reciprocate, but she had not asked him to, yet.

He glanced up at what he could see of the night sky through the open window. It was always open when he was there because it made him feel more comfortable and less like he was closed in or trapped. The gentle night breeze was always a breath of peace amid endless confusion.

The stars had moved. It was getting late. He could probably spend only about twenty minutes more before he had to head back, less if he wanted to do something with his friends before he went to sleep.

"Please give me a chance," Ingrid said in a low voice, and Phantom looked over to see her gazing at him once again. "I know this is hard for you, but please let me show you a few more pictures tonight. Before you go."

Phantom glanced once more toward the window. Perhaps…

"Only a few more." He smiled slightly and felt his heart lighten as an answering smile pulled at Ingrid's slender lips and shown in her dark eyes.

There was no time to spare for leisure when Phantom arrived back at home that night.

* * *

The pictures were what started it.

Before that, Phantom had only been drawn by his curiosity, his desire to solve the mysteries around him, and at first, Ingrid's story, as well as she herself, seemed not quite real.

Ah, but the pictures were there, real and substantial, and perhaps because he had a harder time dismissing them, they stayed with him even after he climbed out the window and headed back to his small, dusky room.

After that, Phantom returned to see Ingrid as often as he could, but he found that, instead of allaying his curiosity, this mystery was rapidly becoming more bazaar and frightening the more he discovered about it. Ingrid showed him more pictures, and told him stories, and eventually, he almost started to believe her. And that made it far far worse.

And then the dreams started.

They started slowly, and at first they did not strike Phantom as very important. He would wake in morning or evening with images and words still floating through his mind, or hovering politely at the edges like shy strangers at a rowdy gathering, not wanting to intrude, but desperately desiring to be noticed. Some of these images matched the pictures he had seen, but many were new. Strange faces and forms and scenes which seemed almost like half forgotten memories.

They were easy to dismiss at first. Phantom merely shook them away, and went on with his duties, but soon they started coming to him when he was awake as well as asleep. He would be going about his day and some small word or sight would set off an explosion of memory in his mind. And now, they did not fade, but lingered and nibbled slowly at his edges.

These scenes and voices collected somewhere at the back of his being, forming the ragged pieces of a patchwork quilt of memory. The quilt was slow to take shape, but as it became clearer, Phantom began to feel the first stirrings of unease and uncertainty as he wondered about the new questions that reared their frightening heads. If he had had a life before this one, what had happened to change him so much? How had he come here, and was his memory only returning now? And as more of his mysterious past emerged from the darkness, Phantom felt fear start to trickle its icy way through his heart.

But all of this, naturally enough, was a very slow process; too slow, as it turned out. But Phantom and Ingrid had no way of knowing that at the time.

* * *

Phantom came awake and lay frozen, feeling the chill trails of sweat crawl down his back and soak coldly into his gray shirt. The memory of another awakening filled his mind like a bright, painful light. He remembered waking up in a strange room, not knowing who had taken him, and paralyzed with the fear of what they would do to him when they came back. He remembered seeing his belongings piled neatly on the table, one broken strap from his backpack hanging limply over the edge. Most of all he remembered the helplessness he had felt, and that ghastly terror.

And he knew, with absolute certainty, that this life, his shadow life that seemed to be everything, this was _wrong_. He did not remember everything yet, far from it, but he knew that the horrible, fear filled memory was somehow the beginning of what he was now a part of. It was the beginning of his life as a shadow, and the beginning of Phantom.

Somehow, this was not who he had been. Ingrid had been right, something that some part of him had known for a while now, although he had not allowed himself to really believe it. What had he been called back then? Fillmore. He had heard the name spoken hundreds of times in these newly awakened memories; whispered, shouted, called out in anger or with humour tugging at the corners of the word.

He had to go to Ingrid. He knew this place was wrong, was dangerous and frightening, and she was now the one person he knew who could help him. And he knew that she would.

He pulled himself out of bed and dressed hurriedly. It was early in the evening, and most of the shadows would not be up yet, but still he was as quiet as he could be as he slipped out into the corridor. His door sounded very final as it clicked shut behind him, but he did not care.

He headed cautiously down the corridors of his home, moving as swiftly as he dared, through the hallways and rooms and towards one of the shafts that lead up into the forest. He had almost reached the ladder when he heard a footstep behind him.

"Phantom?" Mist asked. "Where are you going so early?"

He fought to control his voice, even as he struggled for something to say that would satisfy her and prevent her from following him.

"Mist, I…" He paused and collected himself. "I can't really talk. I'm on a special mission for Darkness, and I need to go." Mist looked at him carefully for a moment that felt like an eternity. He felt as though she were searching his soul, but he knew his hidden eyes protected him. Then she nodded.

"Be careful," she said, and he climbed up the ladder as normally as he could, aware all the time of her eyes watching him.

Then he was out!

Oh the wind on his face, and the pale light of evening as it sifted through the trees. He paused for one precious moment and breathed in the sweet air, than he headed off through the darkening woods.

He made his way through the city streets rather than on the rooftops this time, because he was more visible up above, to other shadows at any rate. But he went more swiftly than was generally his wont, and so perhaps he did not look behind and about him as often as he usually did. After what seemed like forever, he saw the lights of Ingrid's house or, as she had told him, the house where she was spending vacation time with her…what had she called them? 'Grand parents.'

The lights of her house seemed brighter to him than those surrounding it, yet he paused in the alley behind the house, just watching it. Then, for the first time, he sensed them behind him, but already it was far too late.

"Oh my Phantom." The voice, Darkness's voice, rolled through the night like building thunder, although it was spoken in only a whisper.

The sound of the voice slammed into him and he felt terror spike through his every muscle. He turned and there Darkness stood, like the lord of the night. At his back and next to him were at least fifteen shadows, waiting.

"Poor Phantom," Darkness said. "What have you done?"

* * *

Muahahaha!

So this chapter went farther in the story than I thought it was going to. This is kind of good news because it means we're out of the difficult part, (for now), and are entering the really fun part! ;) At any rate, there will be lots of action next chapter. I'm updating LYBCD on the weekend, and then probably this again, so it should be fairly soon. I really want to get some chapters out before I get swamped with work, so wish me luck!

Review if you like, I love to see them!


	9. It All Unravels

DMOS chap 9

Disclaimer: I do not own Fillmore, Ingrid or anyone affiliated with them. But Darkness and his shadows do only my bidding!

So here it is! This is a chapter filled with lots of action, agony and atmosphere! We are also getting pretty near to the end at this point, over halfway, at any rate. There will probably only be about 4 or 5 chapters more. I think. Absolutely nothing about that is definite, although I have most of the story planned out. I know I haven't been updating and I am sorry. I seem to have my inspiration back at last, though. And this chapter is of a decent length to, so that's a plus.

I also must apologize for the swearing in my quote in this one. I don't swear, as you perhaps know, but this quote is from _Ghost_, one of my favorite movies of all time, and it would, I think, lose some of the impact of the quote to change it so. I do encourage everyone to watch this movie however, as it is simply wonderful; funny, touching, sad and filled with action and mystery as well. (I also apologize for my use of 'God' in this chapter. I felt it was necessary.)

My computer decided to be annoying while I was writing this and froze, and I lost some of the chapter. _Sighs. _I re-wrote it, but I don't think it's as good as it was.

Do enjoy the chapter everyone, and please remember to review! ;)

* * *

"I had a _life_, God damn you! _I had a life!_"

Sam Wheat, _Ghost_

* * *

For a moment, Phantom simply stared at Darkness. There he stood; tall, confident and serine between his shadows. He stared at Darkness, but he could not meet the man's eyes. Phantom knew, in some deep instinctual part of him, that if he did so then he would be lost. He would run, through the filth and murk of the alley, run to Darkness and to beg for forgiveness, and gladly take whatever punishment he deserved.

Madness.

But, spare weeks ago, what he was doing now would have seemed madness instead. Perhaps it was. Even now he felt the shock of his betrayal, and the urging within him to go to Darkness where he belonged. To go home. Only his new, fragmented memories kept him rooted to the spot on the dirty concrete, whispering thoughts of escape.

Phantom did not look at the other shadows, (if he was a shadow still.) He knew them all, and perhaps even Mist was there in the group, waiting. But he felt no anger towards them, no betrayal. How could he, when he was the one betraying his comrades, his friends, his…family?

All of this took only a moment, but it was almost a moment too long. Phantom sensed the charge out of some long developed instinct in the last second; almost too late to save him. He ducked and rolled to the side, felt the wind of his attacker cold on his bare head but did not see him, then his left hand skidded on the damp and landed on something sharp, perhaps a bit of rusted metal, and warm blood sprouted from his hand like a black-petaled lily.

But he kept moving, ignoring the pain, ignoring the slippery blood that coated his hand like a slick skin. He leaped for the wall and his fingers found a hold. He climbed. He could hear dark figures hastening behind him, deadly as winded hounds on the scent of his blood, and he knew that where he had gone, they would follow just as easily.

His left hand was sticky with the blood and he could smell it now, almost taste its bitterness on his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and when he reached the rooftop, he realized that he was not the first to finish this climb.

There was no time to even see the figure before it plowed into him, and Phantom felt long fingers feeling for his throat. His hand found the other's face and he dug sharp nails into soft, delicate skin. There was a harsh indrawn breath, but shadows did not show weakness, and Phantom himself grunted softly as a knee thudded into the pit of his stomach.

Then they were no longer fighting alone. Phantom felt the press of many lithe bodies. Countless hands grasped at his thin frame and clutched his clothes like a field of merciless briars. Someone shoved a cloth into his face and he smelled something, a thick, chemical stench. Ah, chloroform. He had never used it himself, but he had smelled it before. It was an ignoble defeat, devoid of honour, and even as his limbs grew heavy and his struggles ceased his mind burned with the shame, until he could think no more, and his consciousness fled like dust on the wind.

* * *

Fillmore woke up, and for a moment he didn't know where he was. But he thought that perhaps he was starting to know _who_ he was. Memories. The memories were still nothing close to complete, but…his name was there, was…his. He supposed he had accepted a while ago that this really was his name, but now…he knew it was. He opened his eyes and immediately felt terror skitter down his spine like millions of tiny spiders. He was sitting up in some kind of hard, metal chair. His head was resting against the chair's back, the metal cold against his bare scalp, and directly above his head was suspended, almost floating, a tangle of silvery wires, coiled together like a mass of snakes. They were far too frightening to be pretty, and yet somehow they were.

When had he thought that before?

The thought fled from his mind as he felt his skin prickle uneasily. He wasn't alone, and he knew who it was even before the familiar voice interrupted the pregnant silence.

"Do you remember where you are Phantom?" Darkness asked. His voice was calm and pensive, almost curious, but it was affected, of course it was. This seemed to be Darkness' _way_. Phantom knew this, and yet it didn't make a bit of difference. But the reaction Darkness provoked was unexpected.

"You _monster!_" Fillmore snarled.

He was shaking, but it wasn't from fear. He _should _be afraid, had been afraid, but now he felt nothing but a kind of loathsome hatred shuddering through him to his very core. He did not remember everything yet, but he remembered enough. His parents, oh God, his parents. They would not have known where he was, if he was alright, if he was even alive. He could see them in his mind, could feel their pain. They would try to comfort each other, to give each other hope of his return and, in the end, they would help to consol each other over his inevitable death. The pain was ripping through him and he had no room left for fear. If he had been free he would have flown at the calmly smiling man in front of him and ripped at him with all he had. Tears formed in his eyes but they didn't fall.

"Ah, I see you _do_ remember, Phantom," Darkness said. He seemed mildly surprised now, but not displeased, and Fillmore felt the loathing and hatred rise until he ached with it.

He drew a deep breath. "That's not my name," he said, knowing his voice shook with emotion.

"Oh, but it is, _Phantom_," Darkness said with a kind of relish. "And do you know why? Because you are mine. Completely. You've just…forgotten."

_He's playing with me_, Fillmore realized, the thought bringing the fear back with a rush. Darkness moved closer and walked slowly around the chair like a tiger circling its prey. That's what Fillmore felt like, and he had an idea it was exactly what he was. All he was. He didn't speak. He was trying to keep his anger, to stop the fear from mastering him. He didn't know what good it would do, nothing, most likely. But he wouldn't give in. He never had.

"You know, Phantom," Darkness said after a moment. He spoke from behind the chair, where Fillmore couldn't see him. "This isn't the first time someone has fought my little machine." He chuckled softly. "It's happened a couple of times before. Perhaps you will have heard of them. The most recent, I believe, was called Gloom. He remembered, but, unlike you, he came to me to find out what it meant. He was always a little slow, but very loyal." He came around to the front of the chair again, and smiled at Fillmore ironically.

Fillmore had listened to the story with growing dread. He had heard of Gloom before. He had made a mistake on a mission and been caught and killed by the police, or at least this was what he had been told, what he had believed.

"What did you do to him?" Fillmore asked. He managed to keep his voice steady this time, but he felt the ice closing around his heart.

Darkness' smile softened, and he spoke as one would to a child. "He wasn't worth saving," he said. He didn't have to say anything more. Fillmore could guess, easily, what had happened to the faithful Gloom. He only wondered who had killed him. Had it been Reaper? And he had no illusions about what was likely to happen to him.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"That is an excellent question," Darkness said. He seemed to consider it for a moment, and then continued. "It gets…lonely sometimes, I suppose. All the lies. It is…pleasant for me to talk to someone who knows who I am for once. It's not as though you will remember anything soon."

"Than why don't you just kill me?" Fillmore spat. He wasn't sure why he had said it. It wasn't as though he was eager for his life-thread to be cut, but he couldn't take this game anymore. All the waiting, and knowing what was coming, it was intolerable. He would rather make an end of it at once. At least he had finally found the answers to his questions, grim as they were. Oddly, he did not regret the discovery.

But Darkness laughed. "That's what I like about you Phantom," He said. "But you misunderstand; I'm not going to kill _you_."

Fillmore didn't say anything. He was relieved, and he hated himself for it. But then, did that mean…?

Darkness leaned forward and patted the back of the chair, next to Fillmore's head. "You remember this room, I'm certain Phantom. It's much harder than simply erasing memories, but I can make you believe that everything you're 'rediscovered' is nothing but a trick. It should make you more loyal than ever." Another gentle smile. Fillmore recognized that look. It was a smile of entitlement; of…ownership. He shivered. "Very soon," Darkness continued, "that annoying former life of yours will be nothing more than a very bad dream. And so will your little girlfriend."

_Ingrid_. Fillmore felt his heart leap into his throat. Oh no. He had been sure she was safe. How had Darkness found her? Darkness was staring at him as though he knew exactly what was passing through the panicked boy's mind.

"Don't look so surprised Phantom," he said then. "How do you think I found out about _you?_ Your friend Mist was worried about you and she followed you on one of your solo training missions." She then came to me and told me everything. Your friend isn't dead _yet_ but…" He raised one eyebrow as if to say 'that is only temporary.'

Fillmore felt sick. He was pressed back into the chair so hard he felt as though he was trying to push himself through the metal. Perhaps he was. His entire body was made of ice, except for his heart which was burning up inside his chest. He pulled at his restraints futilely, uselessly. He knew it was useless, but he pulled anyway. The metal dug painfully into his bare wrists.

Darkness' expression turned to one of satisfaction, then he turned and walked easily over to the control panel across the room. He touched several buttons and the wire headdress descended slowly onto Fillmore's head for the second time, sparkling with a fell light as it did so. Fillmore gave a helpless kind of sob, the only sound of defeat he had ever uttered.

"Don't worry Phantom," Darkness said as Fillmore's mind began to darken. "I can guarantee that you will not miss her."

_Ingrid…_

* * *

Ingrid was certain that this was a nightmare. It had to be. At any moment she would wake up and find herself safe in bed. This kind of thing never happened to _you_, only to other people. It always happened to someone else.

Of course, _you_ would always be someone else to someone else.

If she wasn't in the middle of a nightmare she might laugh.

She kicked the wall with one black boot and winced inwardly at the pain in her toes. She shouldn't have done that. She should have been trying to think of a way to escape; only it was so easy to panic. She took a moment to lean against the cold metal wall and simply to breathe. That was better. She was calmer now.

It had all happened so fast.

She had been in her room waiting for Fillmore. She didn't know whether he would come, of course, but she waited for him every night anyway, just in case.

The mystery of Fillmore had only deepened in the weeks which passed since their first…meeting. She told him a great deal, but found out next to nothing about _him_. He was so shy, and her questions frightened him, or brought about a kind of rage and disgust, which she thought she had surprised in his face sometimes. She had asked his name once, and he had almost disappeared forever. And she didn't want to scare him away. She didn't…she _couldn't_ lose him again. Not when she had barely begun to find him.

Because it was still him. He was still Fillmore, under all these new changes. His personality was still the same. She watched him, and she saw the same motions and small inflections that belonged to no one else. He had the same way of speaking and of listening. He had that same curiosity which she had marked from the first time they had met. It was his drive for discovery that had convinced her to stay at X, and not bale out when her ship began to sink. He had saved her then, and many times afterward, and she had done the same for him.

Oh, she had wanted to tell people. She had still been living with her grandparents, or she might not have been able to stop herself. She wanted to call his parents especially. She wanted to see their listless sorrow turn into enraptured joy. She wanted his family to know that he was alive. But she had known that if she did that, she would never see him again. He would disappear into the darkness and her chance to help him would be gone forever. He would be gone.

And it _had_ been working. She could see his memories coming back, at first in trickles, then quickening slowly, swelling into a stream. He still hadn't said much, but she could see that he remembered her face, and that he finally _knew_ she was telling the truth, whereas before he had merely believed her. Why had he believed her, she wondered, when there was no memory to back it up? Regardless, he had been coming back.

She had been so excited, waiting for him, wondering if this would be the day when he would talk to _her_ as well, and tell her who had done this to him. And so, of course, the window had been wide open. She had looked away from it for a moment, and then when she looked back there _was_ a dark figure crouching on the sill. It was just that it was the wrong one.

She had had only a moment to observe the boy, to register his thinness and pale skin, his jet black hair and his eyes. His dead eyes.

Then, even as she opened her mouth to scream he had flung something into her room which struck the wall with a clang of metal, and gas started filling the air. She inhaled and choked and coughed, and she felt herself fading even as she saw the boy approaching her.

Ingrid shivered again, remembering.

She didn't know where she was. It was dark here. There were no windows anywhere, and although the door had a small grill inset in its top half, no light filtered in through it. She didn't _know_ where she was, but she wasn't stupid, and she had a pretty good idea.

She had to assume that Fillmore had been found out. If that was the case…what was happening to him? And…what was going to happen to her? She felt the fear wrench at her gut and fought it down. She approached the invisible door once again and tried to feel for the hinges. Maybe she could find something she could use to pry them off. However, even as she began groping over the smooth, cold metal a light came on in the corridor outside, not bright, but blinding compared to the absolute darkness which had pervaded before. Ingrid blinked and raised one hand to shield her reeling eyes, then peered through the grating.

There was a girl outside in the corridor. She looked about Ingrid's age, but taller. She was dressed in the black pants and shirt combo that Fillmore always wore now, and her hair was long and fine, and a peculiar shade, being almost gray in colour. She moved one slender hand, and manipulated something on the wall beside the door that Ingrid couldn't see. Immediately, there was a whirring, and the slats that formed the grating retracted into the door, leaving an open space. Through this opening, Ingrid's eyes met the girl's large, dark ones.

Ingrid opened her mouth to speak, although whether it was to ask for help or not, she hardly knew, and then closed it again. The girl was staring at her, simply staring. Her eyes were intense, and she looked…strange. She looked troubled, and her eyes seemed to be searching desperately for _something_. Instinctively, Ingrid found herself returning the girl's gaze. Ingrid tried to make her eyes reflect what she was feeling; her own confusion and fear. It was hard to open up like that, but somehow she knew that she _had_ to.

Whatever the girl was looking for, she evidently found it, although it did not seem to bring her comfort. If anything, her face looked more troubled. She moved back and broke Ingrid's gaze, and a moment later the slats of the grating sprang into being once again, and Ingrid was once again in near darkness. However, before she had even had a chance to start feeling disappointed, there was a _click_, loud in the silence, and the door opened. The girl stood there, her eyes cold and almost angry. She held herself tensely, and uneasiness hung about her like a fog. In her arms she held a pile of black cloth which she shoved at Ingrid unceremoniously.

"Put these on," she said, then as Ingrid hesitated, "Quickly! I'm going to help you get out of here, but you have to hurry." She stepped back a little and scanned the corridor anxiously. She muttered something to herself and Ingrid blinked, wondering if she had heard right. She thought the girl had said "Phantom, I hope you're right," but that didn't seem to make a lot of sense.

Ingrid rolled up her dress and slipped on the black pants, and then pulled the shirt of identical colour over her head. The pants were a little long for her, but that only meant that they adequately hid her boots from sight. Once she was dressed Ingrid glanced over at the girl again. The girl met her eyes again for a moment, then nodded, once.

"Follow me," she said, "And don't say anything." She started off along the corridor, and Ingrid followed her. She couldn't help drawing in a nervous breath, but this was her best option for escape, and she knew it. She kept a sharp eye on her surroundings as they walked, and thanked fortune for her photographic memory. It would almost certainly come in handy today.

Many of the hallways that they traveled through looked identical, cold and gray with plain lighting and floors that seemed to absorb the very sound. They saw other people as they walked as well. All children, all dressed in black or gray, and all as silent as themselves. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to be, and although a few halted long enough to greet her companion, no one took any notice of Ingrid, which was perfectly fine with her. The first few of these encounters put her on edge, but it was as though the clothes made her invisible, as though she belonged here. Although she spent most of her thought worrying about whether this was going to work, not to mention wondering why this girl was helping her, she also spared some thoughts towards Fillmore. _Please be alright_, she prayed. _I'll get you out of here, I promise._

At last they reached a ladder which ascended up until it reached a circular trapdoor in the ceiling far above. The whole arrangement made Ingrid think of sewers, but she certainly wasn't going to say anything at this point.

Here the girl paused. "That door," she said, gesturing, "leads to the woods above. You can get away through there if you're quick. It's your only chance, anyway." Ingrid moved forward hesitantly, still unsure whether this was some kind of trick, but the girl did not move. Ingrid placed her hands on the first rungs of the ladder, and then stopped, looking back. She felt that she had to ask.

"Why are you helping me?"

The girl sighed, and it seemed for a moment that she wasn't going to answer. Then she said, softly, "I know you're not malicious and, if you die…" She trailed off, and then murmured, almost to herself, "Phantom wouldn't like it."

There was Phantom again. Ingrid still didn't know what it meant, but it didn't matter. She could see in the girl's face that this was not a trap, but a way out and…a way to get help. Without another word she headed up the ladder, hand over hand on the cold, dark metal, until she reached the trapdoor at the top. It opened surprisingly easily at her touch, and then she was out in the cool, fragrant night which was just starting to rose around the edges with the coming dawn. She didn't know where she was in the mess of dark trees which surrounded her on all sides, but she closed the trapdoor and walked off at a brisk pace, confident that it would lead her somewhere.

She was going to save Fillmore, and she knew what she had to do.

* * *

Enough action for you?

I really turned on the creepy factor in this chapter, I think. I attempted to, at any rate, and I think I succeeded. And I got to bring Gloom up again! If you remember from way back when, he was mentioned in the first chapter, poor guy. I made up a whole character for him, and then ended up killing him off before the first chapter. _Sigh._ Ah well, that's how it goes.

Yay, Ingrid's point of view! You're probably never going to hear it again, but I really felt it needed to make an appearance this chapter. Hopefully you understand her a little better. As for Mist, well, we'll have to see. Let it suffice for now that she has her reasons.

As I've said before, I know exactly what happens next, and so I will try to speed up my update times. I want to get to the finale. ;)


	10. No Identity

DMOS chap 10

Disclaimer: I own nothing but a really bazaar storyline and my wonderful OCs.

Thanks to the people who reviewed! You guys made me so happy! And so here's another chapter for everyone.

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Special thanks to Kendran, whose lovely review got me off my butt and updating again. Thank you so much!

Also a special thank you to Drifting One, who sent me many very helpful suggestions and blush-worthy compliments.

This one is for you guys!

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"She turned her face to Molly Grue, and her eyes were not the unicorn's eyes. They were lovely still, but in a way that had a name, as a human woman is beautiful. Their depth could be sounded and leaned, and their degree of darkness was quite describable. Molly saw fear and loss and bewilderment when she looked into them, and herself; and nothing more."

- Peter S. Beagle, _The Last Unicorn._

_

* * *

_

The boy sat in the back of the car and watched the men as they talked. He could hear the agitation in their voices. It was interesting, but not so interesting that he was paying attention to what they were saying. Sometimes they spoke to him, sometimes to each other, and sometimes into the radio in the dashboard. Their words were clear enough, and yet not distinct. He watched the scenes outside the car's window as well; houses, streets, people. So many people he couldn't have counted them even were he inclined. They did not seem interested in him at any rate.

He had woken to find a man staring at him, dressed in navy blue with a black vest over his shirt. His forehead was crinkled in that strange emotion of worry that he understood, and yet did not. The man had been shaking him, he thought, and there was still a kind of loose feeling in his mind. Two large hands gripped his shoulders.

"Kid – you alright?"

At the time, he'd thought it was mildly amusing. Why wouldn't he be alright? He was looking at the man through a kind of silvery mesh which hung down around his face. Now he raised his hands and gently lifted the mesh up and away from his face. It seemed to go easily enough. The man had looked intensely relived, another word he was only familiar with abstractly, and had begun to speak to him a great deal in a soothing tone, as though he assumed the boy was frightened of something.

Heh.

But the mirth was extremely mild, only a pleasant feeling deep within, and so he had listened patiently to this outflow of words, although they seemed to vanish from his mind almost as soon as he heard them. After a few minutes of this another man appeared, dressed in a similar fashion, although he was holding a gun in one hand. He looked disgusted. The two of them spoke together for several minutes, but the boy didn't listen. Instead his eyes drifted around the room, amusing himself until their words became comprehensible again when they turned to him.

They told him to come with them, and so he did. They never stopped talking, to him and to each other, but their words were certainly irrelevant. They tried to get him to speak to them, but he wasn't going to do that, and so eventually they gave up. He followed them through a maze of dark gray corridors until they reached a ladder. Climbing up in between them, he had emerged into a beautiful forest. The sun shown down and he closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the warmth.

There were many other people up there. There were a great many men, all in official uniforms, and all seeming relieved, confused and tired all at once. All those emotions must be exhausting!

There were cars and trucks everywhere on the borders of the woods. The cars were blue and white with flashing lights on the roof. Police cars. There were ambulances as well; short, blocky white vans filled with white-coated officials. He could see many unconscious bodies of what looked like older children and teenagers. They were being loaded into the ambulances by the white-coats, and then the ambulances would drive off swiftly.

He thought it would be interesting to ride in them as they sped down the road, and waited to see if his escort would load him into one of them. No. Perhaps because he was awake, he was lead to one of the police cars and told to get inside. He entered and then watched placidly as the door was closed behind him.

They drove for a long time, and the boy gazed out of the window and watched the world roll by. Everything was so strange, and yet he felt curiously removed from it all, as though nothing was quite real. Or perhaps that was wrong, he mused. Perhaps instead, it was he who was unreal. Amusement flickered briefly inside him at the thought.

They arrived at a large building. The boy recognized it as a police station. He thought that he might have been wary of them in the past, but now he only felt a mild curiosity about what this place was like on the inside. He was soon to find out, and it was a bit of a disappointment; more rooms, more people, and more anxious voices. The boy wondered if all others were this emotional all the time.

He was taken into a small room and asked many questions, which he did not answer, and forgot as soon as he heard them. This was not nearly as interesting as the car ride, but his boredom, like his other emotions, was very mild, and so he found it easy to merely sit there and listen to them talk. They certainly had a great deal to say, both to each other and to him. They kept telling him that it was alright now; that he was safe now and free to talk to them, and they kept asking him questions, until finally they seemed to realize that he wasn't going to speak, and they left him alone for a while, and went outside to talk.

Time passed. The boy did not notice its passing with more than an idol interest, but it seemed quite a while before the door to the small room opened once again. The two policemen who had escorted him here entered, and behind them the boy could see a strange couple; a man and a woman, possibly African American. They both looked harried and anxious, and seemed to be holding themselves together as though afraid that they might fall apart. The woman had been crying, and when she saw him the tears began again. More emotions.

Suddenly the woman let out an anguished cry and ran forward, seizing the boy and enfolding him in her arms. The boy froze, feeling something like fear, and certainly discomfited by this unexpected assault. Fortunately, the policemen moved forward then and spoke to the woman, causing her to detach her arms from around him and back up slightly, although her eyes were still riveted on his face, as though he were some extremely rare specimen. The boy stared back levelly, although he felt now as though he didn't quite like this excitable woman.

There was more talking now. Both the woman and the man insisted on speaking to him, although what they said was unimportant and soon forgotten. The boy was beginning to believe that this was all humans did; talk and deal with those troublesome emotions they all seemed to be saddled with. Did that mean that he wasn't really human? An interesting possibility certainly, and he let it occupy his thoughts, and so pass the time until he found out where they would take him next.

* * *

Ingrid sat and stared at Fillmore. Fillmore sat and stared back. Cool, impassive, mildly interested. There was no recognition in his face. But it wasn't like before, when he had still been himself, but also someone else at the same time. Back then his face and figure had been animated and alive, and she had still felt that she could reach him. She _had_ reached him.

Now, it was as though he was nobody.

The policemen who had found him inside that underground fortress had said that they found him hooked up to a machine of some sort. They thought it had done something to him. Was that what had taken away his memories originally? What kind of freakish person would do something like that?

He hadn't spoken since they had found him, and he hadn't responded, except that when they had told him to come with them, he had. That at least had been very different from the responses of the other children.

As soon as Ingrid reached the edge of the forest, she had made her way to the police station. Fortunately, as she soon discovered, she was still in Horbec Creek, the city where her grandparents lived. Some part of her had been terrified that she might have been taken anywhere, even to another country, but when she saw the familiar outlines of restaurants and the central park, she felt that her luck had indeed changed for the better. After that, finding the station was relatively easy. Convincing the police officers that she wasn't crazy was something else. In the end, they called her grandparents in, who had only just risen for the day and noticed that she was missing. She had been so tired, partly from physical exhaustion, but mostly from the tension and fear which she felt had been with her since the dawn of time. But she didn't want to dwell on that unpleasant scene, or the anxious time afterward when she had nothing to do but wait as the officers arranged and carried out their infiltration and attack. She didn't want to relive any of that, or the aftermath which followed.

Plenty of time when her current worries had died.

They were sitting in Fillmore's living room, him on the couch, straight-backed and silent, and her across from him on the love seat. In the background, she could hear soft voices from the kitchen where Fillmore's parents and her parents were talking to the police. There were several officers in the house, but since the living room was fairly secure, no one had felt it necessary to stay with Fillmore. Perhaps they were also hoping that he would open up to her as he had before. And so, they were alone.

"Fillmore?" Ingrid said softly. No response. Of course, they had already tried this many times, but you always hoped you could be the one to get through to him. She had managed to last time…

But then, he hadn't _been_ Fillmore the last time she had seen him, had he? He hadn't known who Fillmore was at all, and he had believed that she had made a mistake in calling him that. But he had never told her his new name, and the one time she had asked him, he had recoiled from her as though she had asked him if he'd ever tasted human flesh, or something of equal horror. After that she had never asked again. She hadn't wanted to risk losing him. But now, he was already lost.

Her thoughts drifted idly back to her last few minutes in that place. She had never been that frightened before. She had been terrified, even though she wouldn't let herself give in to it. Was that how Fillmore had felt so long ago? He had always been so strong, fighting even when defeat seemed inevitable. She wouldn't have even been able to stay at X if it hadn't been for him. He had refused to accept the apparent hopelessness of the situation, and had made certain that she didn't give up either.

She stared into Fillmore's blank, empty face. It was as though he wasn't even in there any more; as though someone had flipped his switch to reset, and erased everything he ever was.

_Who did this too you, Fillmore?_ Ingrid asked silently. But nobody answered.

What kind of a life had he lived in those cold, maze-like hallways? Had he had friends, and what did he do all day? In his visits to her room he had seemed much like himself. Was it the same for the other kids who lived there with him? There had been ninety-three of them, the policeman had said. So many.

What kind of memories had he created, and would he ever remember the ones he had formed with her? Would she ever be able to share more memories with him?

"Oh Fillmore, please be okay," Ingrid whispered. "If you die in there I…" She trailed off suddenly as a memory flickered across her mind. It had not been very long ago, but all that had happened since then had driven it from her mind. It was something that strange girl had said right before she disappeared back into the maze of sleek gray corridors. She had said _"__if you die…phantom wouldn't like it."_ At the time, the statement hadn't seemed to make much sense, but that was because Ingrid had been thinking of a phantom, as in the spirit of a dead person. But her own urgent thought just now changed the meaning of the statement entirely, so that the phantom the girl had mentioned might be, not an undead creature, but a person; a name. It was only a possibility, but it was the only clue she had to go on. And really, who else in the hive of alien children even knew of her existence, much less would mourn her death.

"Phantom?" Ingrid asked softly. At once a startling change took place. Fillmore flung himself backwards away from her into a crouch. His face was suddenly animated, emotions flicking across it like the light of a changing projector.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "What have you done to me?" All the time his eyes darted around the room, taking everything in.

_This was a mistake_, Ingrid thought grimly. He didn't remember her at all, it seemed, even the her that he used to visit in her room at night. She shouldn't have tried this all on her own, but she'd done it now and all she could do was to continue.

"Please," she said gently. "I'm not going to hurt you." She held up both hands to show that they were empty. He still looked at her with great suspicion, and seemed to be measuring the distance to the window, but he didn't run. Did he guess that there were others around, watching the exits? Ingrid continued looking at him steadily, even as she felt anger flare hotly in her chest. This was her _friend_ sitting there like a caged animal, staring at her as though she was some kind of monster. He was frightened of her, and the realization made her feel horrible, even though she hadn't done anything.

She was watching him all this time, and so she quickly noticed that another change had begun. Fillmore's face shifted, from fear and suspicion into confusion, then panic. He put up one hand and felt his temples, and then shook his head slightly as though to help himself focus. Ingrid opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped, watching. "What was I…?" Fillmore murmured, and trailed off. The tension vanished from his body and he sat back slowly on his heels. When he raised his head, his face was once more placid and smooth, and inhuman.

Ingrid gaped, and then swiftly closed her mouth. The transformation was so complete it almost seemed as though it had never happened at all, except that she had witnessed it. She almost called someone in then, to see if the experiment could be repeated, and find out what they could about this strange phenomenon, but something made her stop. If the officers found out that this…personality was still inside Fillmore, he would almost certainly be sent off with the others; locked away where they could not escape, and where she could not reach him. Perhaps it was a selfish thought, but Ingrid really believed that she had the best chance of reaching Fillmore inside his cocoon of indifference, and she needed to try. But she didn't have enough time now, because soon she would have to leave, and so she simply sat and watched Fillmore, as he watched her, and she thought of what she would do when she spoke to…Phantom, once again.

* * *

The sun slipped slowly behind the hills and houses and vanished. The house grew darker and, upstairs in a strange room, resting on a strange bed, the boy slept peacefully. The hours passed and the stars shifted in their bed of cloud, and the household slept.

The boy woke.

He didn't know why he woke exactly, only that there was somewhere he had to be, and soon. This feeling of purpose was new to him, and seemed to almost come from outside himself, but it was not unpleasant for that. The boy got out of bed and moved over to the dresser at the side of the room. He knew somehow that this newfound purpose was a secret, and so he did not turn on the electric light and navigated solely by the threads of moonlight which blinked softly through the window curtains like sleepy children. Swiftly, the boy searched through the dresser drawers for suitable clothing. The clothes he had been wearing when they had found him had been taken away – to where, he did not know, and he had been given pajamas of blue and red coloured cotton, but he knew that he would need actual clothes for this.

He selected a dark shirt and track pants. He could not see their exact hue by moonlight, but he could tell that it was dark, and therefore would not give him away. He also unearthed a large, black hooded sweatshirt, and some socks and underwear. He dressed swiftly, pulling the sweatshirt over his head when he had finished. He found a pare of running shoes underneath the bed, and slipped these on as well, conscious all the while of the passing time. He headed to the window, and then paused. There were several articles laid out on the desk, and something about them arrested his attention for a moment, even while something inside him was buzzing urgently to be away. There was a strip of cloth resting among the other things on the desktop, and the boy picked it up and held it for a moment. It was some kind of scarf, or sash, and he couldn't tell the colour, but he held it for a second more and then, without quite knowing why, he tucked it into the front pocket of his sweatshirt.

Then he slipped easily out of the window and off over the rooftops, into the night.

The Boy's destination was an old warehouse on the edge of town. When he arrived there the moon was high in the sky and the wasteland of concrete and rusty metal was bathed in a frosty, white light. There was a man there when he arrived, waiting for him. The man was standing at the warehouse's door, and smiled when the boy stepped cautiously from the shadows. The boy began to approach, and then stopped uncertainly. He did not know why he was here, only that he had needed to come, and now he waited to discover his purpose in this place.

"Phantom," Darkness said clearly, and awareness flooded over Phantom like a shaft of silver moonlight.

* * *

Told you about the name thing. ;)

And I ended up using Ingrid's point of view again. How about that? That was actually a scene I've had planned for a long time, but I completely forgot about it last chapter. Yeah, I know.

I realize this chapter is kind of weird. The machine is my invention, and it has its limitations, and yes, I do know what they are. I'm sorry if the chapter was kind of slow. I promise next chapter will make up for it. Also, I Fillmore isn't in character this chapter. That is intended. He isn't really Fillmore, as Ingrid observed. He isn't even really a person here. But I promise, the Fillmore we all know is back in the next chapter. Do tell me if Fillmore's persona here was boring. I tried to make it interesting, and I think I like the result, but I tend to like my writing, so I hope no one was bored.

Next up is the climax of the story, coming out fairly soon. In the mean time, don't forget to review!


	11. Mind Games

DMOS chap 11

Disclaimer:

Deyinel: Hmmm, I wonder if I could challenge the might of Disney with the support of Darkness and his legion of shadows? I might try it, save for the fact the Ingrid went and told the police, and now all my shadows are locked up. I guess I still don't own Fillmore.

Darkness: You see, girl? Now you realize what comes of betraying me.

Deyinel: Eeep! Quit appearing behind me like that. Now go get ready for the next chapter. It's about to start.

Darkness: Oh, very well. (To the readers) You! You will all enjoy reading about my brilliance, and all of you will review afterward, or you know what fate awaits you.

Deyinel: Heh, well… Now that he's gone, please enjoy the chapter!

Darkness: I'm still here.

Deyinel: Eeep!

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Dedicated to Drifting One and Quirky Misty for the lovely long reviews they gave me. _Hugs!_ Also dedicated to everyone who is reading and enjoying the story! Thanks guys, I couldn't do it without you. Well, I could, but I would be awfully lonely.

The lovely Drifting One has agreed to be my beta for this story, so you can all thank her for the fact that this chapter is error free. ;)

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"It was your fault really. You were such a scrapper! I could see the potential, with the right training. My own little guided missile."

Bart, _Unleashed_

* * *

"You're a thief Fillmore, and you always will be."

- Sunny, _A Forgotten Yesterday_ (_Fillmore_)

* * *

"Come with me Phantom," Darkness ordered. "We haven't much time."

"What's going on?" Phantom asked, following Darkness through the open door and into the shadowy depths of the warehouse. He glanced behind him as he walked, and noticed the two massive doors which flanked the entranceway. Then they passed inside.

The warehouse was full of boxes and packages of every description. They were stacked and piled to dizzying heights, shoved onto shelves against the walls, or forming walls themselves throughout the center of the massive room. Long, florescent lights glared down balefully from recesses in the ceiling far above.

"My other shadows have been captured," Darkness said over his shoulder, starting swiftly down one of the narrow isles formed by the piled cases, heading toward the center of the warehouse. "Now we must fix you up before we can find a way to free them."

Phantom followed after Darkness more slowly. He was confused, and this made him nervous. He could remember what had happened to him while he had been lost, but only dimly, as though it were nothing but a dream, swiftly fading. He didn't really know what he was doing here, or what was going to happen, and although he trusted Darkness and would follow his orders as always, the unfamiliar territory put him on edge. He had thought that he knew every inch of their city, and he wondered now if this place was somewhere else entirely. He could not quite remember how he found his way here.

But these were not his biggest worries. Phantom could feel something eating steadily away at his mind. There was a pain deep inside his head and worse, an annoyance, like an itch he couldn't find to scratch. He wanted to tell Darkness about it, but his master seemed in such a hurry that Phantom didn't like to mention it. He was too much in awe of Darkness to disturb him for nothing. Shadows were supposed to be able to ignore pain, and that was just what he would do.

The bare bulbs glared down at Phantom as he walked, making him feel horribly exposed, and the shadow ducked his head against their revealing light, and followed his master. Phantom started trying to get a sense of himself as he walked, in an attempt to distract himself from the pain in his head. He became aware of his clothing – an outfit he hardly remembered putting on. He slipped his hands into the front pocket of his black sweatshirt, concentrating on the feel of the rough inner cloth beneath his fingers. There was something in the pocket, something soft and thin, like a small scarf. Phantom fiddled with it for a moment, almost trying to guess what it was. Then, failing, he pulled it out. The colour struck him first; bright orange, and unfamiliar because it was so bright. Shadows never owned anything like this, but he still thought he had seen it before. He felt the cloth wrapped around his hand, and at the same time he knew its feel from a hundred different times when he had held it before, none of them distinct or even real, but all whirling around his face like the individual flakes of a snowstorm. The feeling intensified as more and more images emerged, blurred before him and spinning at his eyes and cheeks in their countless numbers. The pain in his head was an inferno raging as though seeking to protect him against the frigid storm of pictures. But the storm was too much. It slammed into Phantom in an explosion of colour and sound and he screamed, although he could not hear it.

The pain was gone.

Fillmore raised his head slightly, and found that he was crouching on the floor on his hands and knees, his face inches away from a gritty puddle on the concrete, and the pain was gone. He was still reeling from his restored memories, still coming to grips with everything. He knew who he was now, he…remembered.

"Phantom? Phantom, are you alright?"

Darkness' voice broke into Fillmore's spinning head, and panic seized his heart in an iron claw. One thing he knew with certainty, even while his mind was still sorting and fumbling through his memories. One thing stood out; he must not let Darkness hook him up to that machine once more.

"Phantom?" Darkness asked again, and Fillmore set his teeth and answered.

"Forgive me Darkness. There was a horrible pain in my head and…and images…disjointed. I don't know what they mean." The shaking of his voice had been unavoidable, and Fillmore silently prayed that Darkness would interpret it as a symptom of the pain, rather than the heart stopping terror which in reality was flooding through him. He kept his head down and waited. There was a pause, during which Fillmore tried to quiet his racing heart, certain that it was loud enough for Darkness to hear. Then he Fillmore heard the soft scrape of Darkness' footsteps as he moved across the gritty floor.

"We have less time than I thought," Darkness said. "Hurry Phantom, follow me." He set off again toward the warehouse's center. Fillmore let out one silent breath, and then forced himself up onto legs which could barely hold him. Darkness was walking swiftly away from him down the wide center isle. He didn't look back, but Fillmore knew that wouldn't last long. Could he make it back to the door before Darkness caught him? Fillmore didn't know, and he couldn't risk being caught, but there was one thing he did know: even amid all the uncertainty; he could move as silently as a shadow.

Without hesitating, Fillmore ducked to the side, setting his feet so that they would not grate against the gritty floor, and slipped in among the stacks of boxes to the right of the path. He moved back slightly, so that he was hidden, and then waited, breathing noiselessly. The footsteps stopped, and Fillmore imagined Darkness turning and looking back, then around. Searching for him.

"Phantom?" Darkness asked the silence. There was a pause, and then Fillmore heard a chuckle that sent goose bumps popping up on his arms. "Oh, hello Fillmore," Darkness said. Fillmore still couldn't see anything from his hiding place, but he heard the footsteps speed up suddenly, as Darkness started back towards him and then past, heading for the double doors where they had entered. Here, the footsteps halted. Then Fillmore heard the desolate groan of obstinate metal and the final clang as the doors drew together like the gates of Hades closing forever.

Fillmore backed away softly, as quiet as he had ever crept on some moonless night, but he was certain that he had never been more terrified. He heard no footsteps now, but that meant nothing. Darkness could move as quietly as any shadow.

The silence was complete; Fillmore could hear nothing, not even the sounds of distant traffic, or a distant scuttling of rats in this dead place. He thought _maybe the rats are as frightened as I am._ It was so quiet that it was almost unreal. It was as though he was back at X, crawling through bushes in the greenhouse, or creeping around by the lake, both the hunter and the hunted. It seemed as though he had always been after people, or they had been after him, but this was like a cruel mockery of all the times that hadhappened so very long ago. Looking back now, they all seemed only a game that he had played without realizing it.

It was so silent that when Darkness spoke, Fillmore jumped at the sound, and the sudden reminder of his companion.

"I'm going to find you eventually," Darkness said. "You are very stealthy, my Fillmore, but you will never learn to be completely invisible, and you cannot get out." The voice seemed to be coming toward him and slightly to the left, and Fillmore moved as quietly as he could manage away from it and didn't answer. He wouldn't give Darkness what he wanted.

"You know," Darkness continued after a moment, "you really brought this on yourself. You were exceptional, Fillmore, and that makes you valuable. If I hadn't gotten my claws into you, someone else would have." He chuckled again gently. "Some people merely prefer to be more subtle about it."

Fillmore kept moving away from the voice, following the twists and turns of the various paths. He was trying to concentrate on that, rather than focusing on Darkness' words. He didn't want to hear them, but he couldn't help listening.

"Of course, this little fiasco is partly my fault," the voice rolled on smoothly. "I knew you had both the talent and the drive for finding things out. That was actually part of why I wanted you. And I knew that it made you dangerous. I suppose that I relied too much on the strength of your loyalty to me to keep you from prying at the mysteries of our home."

_It's not my home!_

He didn't say it. He kept moving, and he kept silent, but even though he knew what Darkness was trying to do, he couldn't keep the words from battering around his mind. He wanted to yell back, to defend himself. Perhaps that would quiet the small voice inside him that asked him whether Darkness wasn't right after all. He had his memories back, but that didn't mean he had forgotten his life as a shadow, or what Darkness had meant to him. The awe and fear with which he had lived every day were still present, and it was hard to imagine that Darkness could fail at anything.

What was the use of resisting when it was hopeless from the beginning? Why was he still fighting? There was no way out, and he should know that. This was all just a game for Darkness; the man was playing with him, that was all, and the realization made Fillmore grit his teeth in fury.

That was it. That was why he was fighting. He was sick of Darkness treating him like some toy. Darkness wanted him? Fine, but he was going to work to get his little slave back under control.

Fillmore narrowed his eyes in defiance and moved back and away from the advancing voice. It seemed to be getting farther away.

"No response, Fillmore?" Darkness asked after a pause. "I know you're clever my boy, but there are some mysteries I think even you were unable to solve. Would you like me to answer a few of them for you? You will only forget them of course, but it might be nice to know them for a little while." He paused again, awaiting a response both of them knew would never come. "Well perhaps I'll tell you anyway," he said at last. "I know you are listening, even though you won't answer, and it will be amusing. I wonder what you would most like to know, since I am reduced to guessing. Ah, I know. I'm sure you've wondered why Reaper was always so different from the rest of you."

Fillmore continued moving away, but a strange feeling was building in his chest. Yes, of course. He had been wondering about Reaper for as long as he had known about him. There had always been something so _wrong_ about him, something Fillmore had never been able to figure out. Now he wasn't sure that he wanted to know, but he had to keep listening, and he had a horrible feeling he wouldn't like the answer to this particular mystery.

"Reaper seems different because he is different," Darkness said. It sounded as though he was trying to find the right way to answer, but Fillmore knew it was likely affected. "He was my first shadow, you see, and I never used the machine on him. I didn't have to." Another chuckle, but this one seemed to shudder through Fillmore, as deep as an earthquake. "It's been so long," Darkness continued softly. "I can hardly remember what he was like, and of course _he_ doesn't. He…was always so needy. He had no right to ask anything of me. I knew I could make him better. It didn't work out as well as I thought it would, but I figured out what I did wrong after that. You know that, don't you Fillmore?"

One more step backward. He was definitely gaining on the Darkness now.

"Well, it's a pity I have to end this," Darkness said abruptly, "But I don't have all night to waste. Besides, there are still many things about _me_ that you don't know. For instance…" Suddenly Fillmore felt someone seize him from behind. He was thrust into the unyielding shelves in front of him with such force that stars exploded in his mind. Then he was flipped around and a hand fastened around his neck like a collar or iron.

"Did you know I can throw my voice?" Darkness asked pleasantly, but his eyes burned with triumph. Fillmore inhaled slowly, feeling the hand tighten slightly on his neck in an unmistakable threat.

He had to get out of this. He couldn't let Darkness win. He couldn't let Ingrid…

And he wouldn't go back to that life. He just had to find a distraction of some kind. Darkness seemed to enjoy talking.

An idea trickled into his mind like a slow rainfall and he almost smiled, despite his fear. If this worked, it would be the second time tonight that it had saved his neck.

Fillmore breathed in. The breath was forcibly shallow, and his voice rasped when he spoke.

"How did you do that?"

"I told you Fillmore, there are many things about me that you don't know. That is why I knew you stood no chance against me. Haven't you realized that yet?" Fillmore didn't answer. He just kept watching Darkness' face, silently praying the man couldn't read his mind.

"What did you mean about Reaper?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. "What did you do to him?"

Darkness' nostrils widened slightly, as though he could smell Fillmore's terror. He didn't quite smile, but his eyes were amused.

"Unfortunately, there is no time for that now," Darkness said. "As it is we're running late, so we need to hurry. Why don't you come with me now and make this easy."

Fillmore laughed, as well as he could around the grip on his throat. It came out rather roughly. He was still terrified, but that didn't mean he had to show it. He was rewarded by the surprise and uncertainty which tugged at Darkness' face, and he laughed again. His hand had found its way into his front pocket.

"Man, you don't get it, do you?" He asked. "You've already lost, thanks to Ingrid. All of your followers are locked up, and soon they'll all get their memories back. You've lost everything, and now you'll be lucky to get away before the police find you. It doesn't matter what you do to me, Darkness," he spat scornfully. "You're finished."

"That's where you're wrong, Fillmore." Darkness was not amused now. His face had hardened into granite, and his eyes were like livid pools of black fire. "You say I've lost everything, but you're wrong in that regard. I still have _you_, and that's more than enough to free everyone else. Even if your new friends are able to restore their memories, it will take far too long. You seem to have forgotten how long to took for yours to come back, and you're the curious one." Darkness pulled Fillmore away from the wall by the front of his sweatshirt. "Now come on," he snapped. "We've wasted enough time."

_Very true…_

Fillmore smirked and cocked his head slightly.

"What are you smiling at?" Darknessdemanded.

"You were right Darkness; I am dangerous." Fillmore found some comfort in the familiar taunting. It had been so long. "Problem is, you never realized I could be dangerous to you."

"What are you…?"

Fillmore didn't wait. His hand emerged from the pocket, his orange belt clutched like the lifeline it was. Darkness raised an arm to ward off his attack, but Fillmore wasn't aiming for the man in front of him. Instead, pivoting on the arm that still held his shirtfront, he flipped the belt over his head so that it caught on the overloaded shelf behind him. Then, still holding on, he leaped up and aimed a vicious kick at the bottom of the shelf, pulling as hard as he could on the sash as he did so.

The shelf toppled over sluggishly, letting out an agonized groan as itcollapsed, and Fillmore scrambled desperately to get out of the way. Darkness was somewhere beside him, cursing furiously. His grip on the sweatshirt seemed to have loosened, and Fillmore pulled out of his grasp and stumbled backward amid the chaos. Everywhere, there were deafening crashes as wood splintered and metal struck the concrete floor with the force of a hammer on an anvil.

Something struck Fillmore on his left shoulder and he closed his eyes as it seemed to erupt with pain. He had fallen and was lying on the floor, and it must have been over because the warehouse was silent once again. He painfully roseto his feet, favoring his shoulder. There was a warm wetness seeping through the dark, torn cloth and it throbbed in time to his rapid heartbeat. His brow was also stinging and he thought there was blood dripping down his face, although he didn't remember hurting it. Fillmore drew in a deep breath and turned toward the fallen shelf. Then he saw Darkness.

The man was lying sprawled amid the boxes and strewn debris, and half covered by the shelf'smetal skeleton. His right arm twisted beneath him and there was dust in his gray-shot hair. For some reason,Fillmore felt uncomfortable as he stared. It didn't seem possible that Darkness could look so much like an ordinary man. He breathed in again, then started as Darkness' eyes opened slowly and fixed on his. Fillmore stared back and didn't say anything. He wasn't sure he could. He was waiting, although he had no idea why. Darkness tried to move and groaned again. He fell back and sucked air in through bleeding lips: small, red droplets like weeping rubies. Fillmore swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

"Well done Fillmore," Darkness rasped.

"I've won," Fillmore evenly countered.

Darkness smiled, showing bloody teeth. "You've won for now," he said. His voice was thick with pain, and he still sounded...satisfied.

"But this isn't over, my boy. You can't escape me because no matter what happens; you're still one of my shadows. You couldn't have beaten me if you weren't. And because of that, you'll always be mine."

"I won't let you control me again." Fillmore's wounds were starting to burn now, but he ignored them. Now wasn't the time.

"You won't have a choice," Darkness said. "They can't keep me in prison for long, and when I'm out I will come for you." He smiled again, and then coughed. "And when I find you I'll make you beg to be my slave." Darkness moved his left arm gingerly until he could reach into one of the pockets on his jacket. Fillmore tensed slightly, but didn't try to hide. Somehow, he knew Darkness wouldn't try to kill him. The hand emerged, holding a small black object. Darkness set it on the floor and spun it over so that it thunked against Fillmore's foot. Fillmore bent and picked it up. A cell phone.

"Well go on," Darkness said softly. "Call you friends, little shadow, and let's see what they say."

Fillmore looked down at the device in his hand, then at the wounded man at his feet. Darkness no longer looked helpless. Now he was more like a crouching spider. Waiting.

"I'm not a shadow anymore," Fillmore said. Then he dialed.

* * *

Notes (because Darkness appropriated my introduction):

I've received several complaints about my evil cliffhangers, and I am sorry, but they do tend to keep sneaking up on me, much like a shadow… Actually you were all very lucky in the last chapter. I was going to finish it at the spot where Fillmore blacks out after being bombarded with memories, but I resisted. Am I not nice? ;)

This was one of my favorite chapters when I planned out this story. I really hope the tension and emotion for which I was going has come across. Darkness' speeches were difficult to write. Let me know what you think, please.

I'm really sorry this was late. I caught a nasty cold, and I wasn't able to finish and post it on time, and then it was reading week, so I had no access to the school computers. The good news is that I'm well into the next chapter now, so it won't be too long until the next update!

Only a couple more chapters to go! See you all next time, and please check my profile for news about updates.


	12. Belonging

DMOS chap 12

Disclaimer: I do not own Fillmore. I believe this has been established.

So I still can't risk going on at home, and I can only go on at school, or else pop on for a few moments to post or reply to something. And now school is out, so I am not a happy camper. Help me, somebody! I'm sorry this update took such a long time. School really took a toll on me, and this chapter was also really difficult to write because it happens to be the one chapter I never really worked out when I was coming up with this story. Anyway, here it is, and I think it came out well in the end.

This chapter will be reposted when Drifting One has had a chance to edit it, but for now, I feel like I want to get it out. Next chapter will be out by next week.

Enjoy!

* * *

Dedicated to the "Avatar: The Last Airbender" show, which inspired me to finally finish this chapter. It's been leaving me very pensive and kind of melancholy, although not in a bad way, and I think some of that came out in the chapter. Don't worry though, I think it fits with what I intended. Incidentally, if you haven't watched this show, do so. Now. Seriously, I'll wait.

If you've already watched this show than give yourself a hug for me and enjoy the chapter!

* * *

"Oh, didn't realize I was dealing with tortured Fillmore today. Sorry"

Ingrid, _The Nineteenth Hole Is A Shallow Grave_

* * *

The conversation was mercifully brief. Fillmore hadn't thought that he would be able to talk at all, but somehow his voice was calm and even as he told the officer where he was and who was with him. The officer wanted to keep him talking, but Fillmore had nothing more to say, and no energy left to say it with. He hung up and looked down at where Darkness lay. The man had relaxed and his eyes were closed, and whether he had lapsed into unconsciousness from the pain of his injuries or merely had nothing more to say himself, Fillmore didn't know. And he didn't particularly care right now. He felt so tired now, and his shoulder had started throbbing in time to his heartbeat. He wanted to sit down but he wouldn't, not yet. Darkness seemed to be out, but Fillmore wasn't going to let his guard down. He had won, but that didn't mean he could forget how dangerous Darkness was. Especially not now.

So he stood and tried to ignore the pain of his weeping shoulder and other wounds, and he was still standing when the doors were wrenched brutally open with scream of protesting metal. He had forgotten that they were locked.

Several policemen entered and Fillmore felt himself tense up like a dog with its hackles raised. He couldn't help it, and he felt another flash of hot hatred for the man at his feet.

He forced himself to remain still as they approached, although he wasn't sure how much longer he could remain standing. He felt so cold and his head was almost too heavy to hold up.

The lead officer was close enough to catch him when he fell. All Fillmore knew was that he was cold and his head was full of cotton somehow. He didn't hear their words of reassurance, and he wouldn't have cared in any case. He simply drifted. Rest. It was enough.

* * *

Fillmore woke up in a white room, lying in a white bed, with white sheets pulled up to his chest. He felt sore and ill, and his head felt strange, as though the skin was stretched too tightly over his skull. He wanted to get up. He felt so exposed here, bathed in what seemed almost blinding light, but the next moment he remembered why he felt so exposed and the anger returned for another burning stay in his chest.

He didn't have the energy to move much anyway. He barely managed to grope over on the bedside table for his glasses and then to slip their reflecting surfaces over his naked eyes. Then he lapsed back, feeling his muscles shaking from this exertion.

As he lay there, he heard footsteps, prim and light, accompanied by the clicking of heels, and then the door opened. Fillmore had tensed up again, even though it made his shoulder smart, and he forced himself to relax as a woman in a white dress approached. A nurse. Well, that made sense, seeing as he was in the hospital and all. He wondered suddenly how long this was going to continue. Would he get used to seeing strange people soon? Would he stop quivering at bright lights? Or would he go through life this way, jumping at everything new and strange? He sighed, although even he didn't know whether it was from exhaustion, resignation or misery.

"Are you all right dear?" the nurse asked. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm…" Fillmore found that his throat was sore as well. He swallowed and tried again. "I'm okay. How long was I…?"

"Oh, only for the night, dear. About seven hours." The nurse was the type who liked to bustle. She was fiddling with the charts at the foot of his bed. Fillmore felt slightly relieved. At least he hadn't slept for three days for some bizarre reason, or anything like that. Suddenly and without warning, thoughts of his parents broke into his mind like the rush of water which has been held back for far too long. Why hadn't he thought of them before? He swallowed again, trying to clear his throat. He wished the nurse would give him something to drink, but she seemed to be busy rearranging his extra blankets.

"Uh…hey?" he rasped. The nurse turned to him. "Do you think I could see my parents?"

"Oh, of course dear." She was all attention in a minute, although Fillmore thought that she wasn't quite meeting his eyes. "They've been here ever since you were brought in last night. I'll go and tell them you'd like to see them, shall I?"

"Sure." Fillmore watched as the nurse bustled gratefully out. Something was making her nervous; that was certain. He wondered what she had been told about him, and felt his cheeks burn. He was certainly a criminal, thanks to Darkness. He was back to himself now, he thought, but that didn't erase what he had done. All of his crimes stood out clearly in his mind, like bare branches in the dead of winter. Thank God he hadn't killed anyone. At that thought, an image of Reaper swam unbidden before his eyes, but he had no energy now to ponder that mystery, or to wonder what had happened to the others.

His head was so sore it felt like one big bruise, and his eyelids seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each. His shoulder felt sore as well, even though he guessed that they'd given him painkillers. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't let himself fall asleep yet. He had to see his parents; he had to know that they were real, and that the nightmare was over. Then maybe he could rest some more.

They were here.

Fillmore managed to struggle into a sitting position as his parents came into the room. He drank in the sight of them. His mother looked thinner, he thought, and both of them had been crying. He felt another pang in his chest, painful, yet precious. They were here, and they were real. It was like a wonderful dream after the nightmare of Darkness, and he fought the urge to pinch himself. They looked hesitant at first, almost as if they weren't certain it was him. He thought that he must have smiled. At any rate they rushed to him and he felt their arms close around him, and he found that he was crying. His chest heaved with deep, painful sobs, and he had never felt anything more wonderful. He thought _No matter what comes next, this_ _is worth it._

* * *

He went home. He didn't think they were going to let him at first. The policemen wanted him to stay in the hospital _under observation_, but they were finally convinced that he really was himself, although they spent an agonizingly long time talking to him and his parents before they came to this realization. But when it came, it was a relief. Fillmore didn't think he could have stood another day in that too-bright room.

His parents had been given a little information about Darkness, such as his name, and that he had disappeared over twelve years ago. That was, the sergeant in charge had said, the only information they had gained thus far, although presumably they would discover a great deal more before the trial. Fillmore, however, did not learn even this much until several days had passed and his parents believed him to be ready for it.

At the moment, in any case, all he cared about was leaving this bone white prison, escaping, and going home.

Ingrid was there to greet him when he walked out of the door and into the sunlight. She looked uncertain for a moment, standing there, a patch of dark clothes and pale skin, and then she ran to him and hugged him fiercely. Fillmore was caught off guard and tensed for a moment, but it was getting easier. At least, this part. He let himself forget his own worries for the moment and simply hugged her back. He wasn't quite used to the world again yet, but she was comfortingly familiar.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Ingrid whispered. There was something in her voice, a wisp of regret or even guilt, and Fillmore frowned slightly at the realization.

But all he said was "Me too."

He waited until they were alone. His parents didn't seem to want to leave him, but they clearly didn't want to smother him either. He looked across at Ingrid where she sat in the blue loveseat. The living room was decorated in comforting blues, not so pale as to unsettle him, and the curtains were drawn, hiding the daylight. He hated that he felt this way, but for now all he could do was deal with it.

Fillmore looked across at Ingrid and found her watching him. He smiled a little and had to resist the urge to fiddle with any number of distracting items that sat conveniently nearby.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her voice was apologetic, as though she didn't want to bring this up.

Fillmore smiled again. "No," he said. He turned slightly so that he was facing her. "But I'm going to anyway. I just…" he sighed. "I just don't want you to tell this to anyone else, alright?"

Ingrid looked hesitant for a moment, but then nodded.

But it wasn't easy, of course. Nothing ever seemed to be. Fillmore tried to collect his thoughts, but they were still so jumbled. His two lives seemed to struggle against each other inside him.

"You didn't come home from school," Ingrid said. It was a prompt, but not an impatient one. It was simply…an invitation.

_This isn't going to get any easier_, Fillmore thought. _I'm just going to have to start talking, and hope that I'll know what to say. _Really, he had known that all along. He inhaled slowly.

"I guess it really starts when I woke up in a room I'd never seen before. And I was afraid that there was someone in the room with me, and that there was nothing I could do to stop them."

He spoke for a long time, and it seemed to get easier as he did so. Ingrid didn't speak at all, but merely listened, and perhaps that made it easier. He didn't look at her as he spoke. Somehow he found it easier to pretend that he was only talking to himself, as he had often done when he was still discovering who he was.

But he didn't tell her everything. He told her most of what had happened to him, but not what he had felt when he was a shadow. It had felt so _right_ to him back then. It had felt like the only life he had ever had, and except for the mysteries, it had been a good life. That was the problem.

There were friends that he had had, experiences that he still remembered fondly. How could he communicate those feelings to Ingrid as she sat there so complete in herself? Did he even want her to know?

Did he still miss that life? He wasn't sure, and it frightened him, but not enough to tell his friend about that part of his harrowing experience.

And he didn't tell her what Darkness had said about Reaper, or about himself.

He was finished. He felt drained, but perhaps slightly lighter than he had been. He watched Ingrid out of the corner of his eye, half afraid to hear her speak, and half eager for it. He thought she was crying, and that surprised him, because Ingrid so rarely cried. He didn't think he had ever seen her do so in all the time he had known her.

The next moment she had crossed the gap and enfolded him in her arms. It was so sudden that Fillmore's heart lurched with panic for a second, but he fought it down with a success born of cold fury, then hesitantly wrapped his arms around her as well. He supposed that in the end, she didn't really need to say anything. Her body was warm and familiar, and her emotions were clearly expressed through her thin arms. He closed his eyes behind the mirrored lenses and let her feelings sweep him away, to some place where none of this had ever happened, and where he was still Cornelius Fillmore, and where everything was right with the world.

* * *

He had only been home for about a week, and was still getting used to life in daylight when there was a knock at the door.

Fillmore was in the kitchen making himself a late lunch. He felt slightly annoyed at the knock, because it meant that he would have to pop up his toast half cooked. Funny, he thought, that his life could fall back into routine so quickly.

He crossed to the door through the warming stripes of light which crisscrossed the hall from the cracks in the window blinds, and opened it easily, but the site of an official police uniform almost caused him to slam the door again in a hurry. His lunch immediately ceased to matter. Fillmore hadn't seen a police officer since his stay at the hospital and it seemed that he wasn't quite as recovered as he had hoped. But that didn't mean that he had to show any of his fear and distrust. That was one thing he had learned while being a shadow; feelings were easily hidden.

"Good morning," the officer said, cordially enough. "May I speak with your parents?" He was a young man with light brown hair. Rather unremarkable to look at. The light glinted painfully off his buttons, and Fillmore wondered idly how long he spent polishing them every morning. He seemed calm enough, although a little uncomfortable, but Fillmore could tell that he was here for something important.

"Sure, come on in." Fillmore's own voice was perfectly polite and calm, and his face showed nothing. It was easy. As the man stepped through the door and Fillmore closed it behind him, he was careful not to let even his heart belie him by racing, and he felt almost more exhilarated than afraid. No matter what this visit was about, Fillmore knew that it would not only be his parents who heard the officer's news.

As it turned out, he only had to eavesdrop for part of the conversation. The officer, Constable Harrison, wanted to question him because Reaper had escaped. Of course, Harrison didn't call Reaper by his shadow name, and he seemed uncomfortable when Fillmore used it. During the interview, Fillmore's parents stayed close beside him on the blue sofa. His mum occasionally placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. He got the feeling that they were trying to protect him from his memories, but strangely the questions didn't bother Fillmore as much as he had thought they would.

Harrison asked about how Reaper had acted before, and tried to find out little details about his personality, but he particularly wanted to know where Fillmore thought that Reaper might have gone to, if he knew of any places that he was likely to 'hide out.'

Fillmore told him quite truthfully that there was no where, other than the headquarters, which the police were obviously aware of. To the other questions he answered truthfully as well, but as monosyllabically as possible. There was nothing he knew which could have helped to find Reaper, and the officer didn't need to know about his nighttime training experiences, or about Darkness' clues about who Reaper was. The news of Reaper's escape had surprised him, but on reflection he supposed that it shouldn't have. A normal hospital had been frightening for him. Reaper must have been in a constant state of panic. If he had failed in his attempts to escape, Fillmore wondered what other methods he might have turned to.

Harrison was disappointed when Fillmore was unable to offer him any useful information, but he also seemed to have expected the eventuality. He must not have been one of the officers who had dealt with the capture of the other shadows, because he did not seem to realize that Fillmore wasn't telling him everything. He acted as though Fillmore was just a normal boy, and he was actually mildly condescending by the end. Maybe Fillmore was better at this than he thought.

Eventually Harrison sent Fillmore to 'go and play,' hilariously, and Fillmore went, only smirking to himself when he was out in the corridor. The man clearly knew nothing about shadows, or about Fillmore himself.

Perhaps if Fillmore had thought about it, it would have bothered him how much he was acting like a shadow at the moment, but the anticipation occupied his every fiber, and left no room for contemplation. He simply walked casually towards the stairs until he was out of site, and then swiftly scanned the hallway for a likely position, keeping an ear out behind him all the while.

Once Harrison had begun speaking again, Fillmore settled with his back against the cream-coloured wall as quietly as he could and then closed his eyes, allowing the sounds from the other room to reach him clearly.

"…not as irrelevant as you might think," Harrison was saying. Fillmore heard the creak of a chair, as though someone was shifting uncomfortably.

"Should we be worried?" his father asked after a moment.

"Not really, no" Harrison answered. "It's clear that your son has no tangible connection to this boy other than their shared circumstances."

"Listen, just what are you leading up to?" It was his mother now. She sounded annoyed and Fillmore suppressed a smile, although he was becoming slightly impatient as well. What had happened?

"Well, it's probably unrelated," Harrison continued. "But two days after the breakout, Edward Cronbey was found dead in his cell."

Fillmore blinked, his concentration shattered. That was Darkness' name. Fillmore found his eyes fixed on the suddenly fascinating site of the patterns caused by the sunlight streaming through the blinds. They cut the carpet into slivers like hot knives. His mind tried to absorb the information, but it was too much. Darkness was…dead? Darkness couldn't die. He seemed too powerful for something as stark and ignominious as death. As a shadow, and even since his recovery, Fillmore had lived with Darkness's power hanging over him like a dark, ever-present cloud. That power couldn't just disappear like that; with one small word. It simply wasn't possible.

Fillmore shook himself out of this mental cul de sac abruptly. Later he would try to figure out what it meant. Right now he needed to listen, to find out all he could.

He found that he had missed only a few seconds of the conversation, and when he began concentrating again, his father was saying "…don't quite see what that has to do with anything."

"It probably doesn't," the officer answered. "The only reason I brought it up is because we think that this boy is Cronbey's son."

"His son?" Fillmore's mother asked. She sounded faint.

"That's right ma'am, William Cronbey. He and his father disappeared when the boy was three and no one heard of them since."

Behind the wall, Fillmore felt his throat ache with a kind of sick realization, but he kept listening.

However, the conversation was almost over. The police really knew nothing about Reaper other than his identity, and even that was nothing more than an educated guess. He had not spoken to them while he was detained, not a single word, and they had no leads which they were 'able to discuss.'

_No leads, in other words, _Fillmore thought grimly.

Harrison bid Fillmore's parents goodbye and showed himself out, Fillmore remembering just in time to stay out of site. And then he was gone, and Fillmore felt strangely empty, almost lost. He didn't know what to think or feel. Tomorrow there would be school in this life he was living. He put out a hand and felt the sunlight on his palm. It was warm and he clenched his hand over it until he could feel his nails digging into his dark skin, and it was good to feel it in a time when nothing was real, and himself least of all.

* * *

Darkness was a monster, pure and simple.

But then, that was part of the problem, Fillmore reflected. Monsters were frightening. They were the worst parts of humanity given life and power and a hunger for blood. He didn't want to be afraid of Darkness anymore. He was tired of the fear, tired of the waiting.

Darkness was dead. He was _never_ coming back to carry out the threats that had haunted Fillmore since their final battle. So why was the fear still there? Why did it feel like Darkness was still waiting in the shadows; waiting to swallow him whole? Would it ever go away, or would he always be waiting, in the back of his mind, for Darkness to return and come after him once again, as he had promised.

Darkness was a monster. Maybe that was why it seemed like he was still out there. You couldn't kill your nightmares, even if they were already dead.

_You can't escape me because no matter what happens; you're still one of my shadows. You couldn't have beaten me if you weren't. And because of that, you'll always be mine._

Fillmore wondered why Reaper had killed Darkness. He knew that it had been Reaper, in spite of the Harrison's words. Reaper had been Darkness' son; stolen and tortured and…changed when he was only three years old. The horror of it was numbing. But it made a kind of dark sense. Fillmore remembered what Darkness had said to him in the warehouse; all of those hints he had dropped in order to distract Fillmore from his advance had all been leading towards that admission. Reaper was Darkness' son, and Reaper was a nightmare as well.

Reaper was broken. He was twisted beyond repair because he had never been allowed to grow into a person. He had escaped from the hospital, but Fillmore doubted that they would have been able to help him if he had not. There was nothing to save from the dark, no memories to recover, no life to go back to and no being behind the shadow.

All of the times when Fillmore had trained with Reaper and seen the demons he fought, was that when Reaper tried to fight away the only memories he had? Fillmore didn't know exactly what Darkness had done to the slim, silent boy, the boy with dead eyes, but that didn't really matter. He had seen the result and it made him sick.

His son.

His three year old son.

Fillmore wondered why Reaper had killed their master. Perhaps Reaper too had been trying to escape.

He heard a footstep, and looked up to see Ingrid standing in the doorway.

"Mind if I come in?" she asked.

"Go ahead." Fillmore shifted on his bed slightly so he could rest his back against the wall. He watched as Ingrid came over and sat down beside him. There was a long silence.

"You weren't in class today," Ingrid said. Fillmore glanced at her, but she wasn't looking at him. He knew she was worried about him, and that made him angry for some reason, but he pushed the feeling down.

"I went for some of it," he said after a moment. "I just couldn't manage to stay for the whole thing."

Ingrid nodded. She seemed cautious. "What did your mum say?"

"She mentioned counseling." Fillmore grimaced inwardly. As if that would help. He couldn't talk about this to his friends, so there was zero chance he would want to confide in some strange man who was being paid to listen to him. He glanced up again and saw that she was looking at him now. He looked away. He wouldn't go to counseling, ever, but he didn't say that, he just waited.

"You know, you can always talk to me," Ingrid said, breaking the silence.

Fillmore sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I know." Now it was Ingrid's turn to wait. "Look Ingrid," Fillmore said finally. "I know you want to talk, but I can't, not to you, not to anyone." He sighed, letting the air out slowly. "This is just something I have to deal with myself." He didn't know where the next thought came from. It just emerged suddenly and he voiced it without thinking. "You can't always save me," he said. As soon as he had spoken he wished he could take the words back. He glanced guiltily at Ingrid, and saw that she was expressionless. But then, she never really showed what she felt. The problem was that the words were true, even though they were painful. Ingrid had no idea what he was going through, so how could she possibly save him from his fears? Nothing could save him right now, just as nothing could save Reaper.

"I understand," Ingrid said. Her voice was low and chill, and Fillmore felt that she really didn't understand, but he couldn't explain what he was feeling. That was the problem. She stood then, and left him, and his room seemed empty without her. He almost called her back, but somehow the thought never found its way to his lips.

* * *

Time passed. It is said that time heals all wounds, and indeed in the days and weeks that followed, Fillmore gradually found it easier to slip back into the routines of his old life. It helped when the kids at school stopped treating him like an invalid, and began treating him like a person again.

He discovered that most of the other shadows had also recovered their memories and been returned to their families, and that was good, at any rate. Fillmore wondered if they too still had times of discomfort, and the feeling that they didn't belong. At least, he knew that they did in some cases.

And, there was Ingrid.

Fillmore regretted what he had said to her, even if it were true. He went to her house several days later and apologized. They made up, but it was not the same, because he still couldn't tell her, couldn't possibly explain everything, and because a large part of him still didn't want to. They hung out together, and everything was fine most of the time, but Fillmore thought there would always be that moment between them, a scar or a dark crack between his hidden eyes and her clear ones.

Perhaps it was partly because he didn't rejoin the safety patrol. When he started going back to school, Fillmore had assumed that everything would eventually return to normal and it seemed that everyone else had thought so too. After a few weeks Vallejo had called him into his office to ask when Fillmore would be coming back. When Fillmore said that he wasn't ready yet, Vallejo had been understanding and hoped that he would be back soon.

That was the hardest part, how understanding everyone was. His friends treated him like he was spun from glass, and his teachers practically fell over each other with offers of extra help and alternative assignments. Even Principle Folsom asked him to tell her if there was anything he needed. He saw more emotion in her face than he thought he ever had before.

Maybe it would have been easier if everyone had treated him normally. Or maybe it wouldn't have helped at all.

Fillmore grew gradually more and more comfortable with his life, until he was almost home again, but he was never ready to rejoin the patrol, and eventually he had to tell Vallejo that he never would be. Everyone on the patrol was sympathetic, and Vallejo told Fillmore to be sure and let him know if he ever changed his mind. Fillmore agreed, but he knew that he never would.

He had thought about it, and the truth was that the patrol held no appeal for him anymore. It seemed like a childish game that he could never return to. There was also a fear, deep inside him, that he might lose control during a chase. He had been trained to kill. He knew how to snap a person's neck, and where they were most vulnerable to knife wounds. He had never killed anyone, and for that he was grateful. Some, he knew, were not so lucky. But still the knowledge was there, and he wasn't sure how much he could trust himself.

When Ingrid asked him why he didn't rejoin however, Fillmore only told her his first reason. He didn't want to frighten her, or to drive her further away.

Fillmore thought about Reaper a great deal; where he was and how he was coping in the dark, menacing world that surrounded him. He had not been caught, and Fillmore doubted that he ever would be. But he often wondered if the two of them would meet again, and what he would say if that happened. Perhaps Reaper would find somewhere that he belonged, even in this strange world. And maybe, someday, Fillmore could do the same.

* * *

And there you have it.

Let me just say that I have only been in the hospital a couple of times, none of them while I was a child that I can really remember, and so I don't have a lot of knowledge for how the place works, their policies and suchlike, let alone how nurses would act towards child patients. Hope that part came out alright. I also know very little about police procedures, and most of that is from films, and likely inaccurate. Hope Harrison wasn't too unbelievable.

You'll notice that Principal Folsom is still running the school. Darkness is dead and Fillmore didn't know about her involvement, so she's reasonably safe, unless her own conscience forces her to come forward. Maybe Darkness would have exposed her if his case had ever come to trial. What do you think?

Let me know what you think of the revelation about Reaper. Did anyone see it coming? His story will be explained a little more before the end, but for now, how do you think it worked?

Well, we've almost reached the end. The next chapter will be more of an epilogue, and not very long, I'm afraid. A few more things will be wrapped up in that chapter as well. However, the story will _not_ be quite finished! I'll explain next time. Until then, thanks for reading.

Oh, and if anyone is waiting for an update of "Loving You Behind Closed Doors", that will be up soon. Thank you for being so patient, everyone.


	13. Alone and Together

DMOS chap 13: Epilogue

Disclaimer: Through all of the changes which have happened in this unusual story, one thing remains the same. I do not own Fillmore.

Thank you to everyone who stayed with me this far, and I'm glad you all enjoyed the ride. I certainly did. I got way more of a response to this story than I initially thought I would, and it makes me so happy to be able to share it with you all. I kind of figured I would only have a couple of people reading it because it's such an odd story, mostly populated by OCs. ;) Anyway, thanks!

Please read my note at the end of this chapter to find out about the real ending. ;)

Written mostly to Owl City. It seemed to fit.

* * *

This story is dedicated to "The Last Unicorn", both the book and the movie, both of which have provided the majority of quotes for this story. It and its sequel are also dedicated to "Parasyte", a manga by Hitoshi Iwaaki, for making me think, and for never making me feel the way I expected. I suspect that this manga will be a large influence on the sequel.

* * *

_Horizon, rising up to meet the purple dawn  
Dust demon, screaming, bring an eagle to lead me on  
For in my heart I carry such a heavy load  
Here I am, on man's road  
Walking man's road  
Walking man's road_

_I'm hungry, weary, but I cannot lay me down_  
_The rain comes, dreary_  
_But there's no shelter I have found_  
_It will be a long time till I find my abode_  
_Here I am, on man's road_  
_Walking man's road_

_Moon rising, disguising lonely streets in gay displays_  
_The stars fade, the nightshade falls and makes the world afraid_  
_It waits in silence for the sky to explode_  
_Here I am on man's road_  
_Walking man's road_

_Walking man's road_

_Walking man's road_

- "Man's Road", _The Last Unicorn_ (movie)

* * *

Fillmore sat on the roof and looked out over his city. The moon was waxing, almost full, and it seemed to roll among the distant ribbons of cloud, its light lending a silver gleam to the darkness.

The roofs stretched out as far as he could see in the silvery glow, their edges illuminated gently, softening the sharp, concrete corners. Tree branches stretched up as far as they could, as though they wanted to bathe in the light, and a few scuds of cloud glided slowly overhead.

Fillmore sighed, a deep sigh from down inside him. It was beautiful. The calm of the night and the sweet spell of the moonlight flowed into him through his nose when he breathed and filled his eyes as he gazed up and outward.

The wind touched his cheek, slipping softly by his face, and Fillmore's lip twitched into a smile.

"I'm glad you could come," he said.

"How did you know I was here?" Lilith asked. She came forward into his view and seated herself beside him on the roof.

"Your shampoo," Fillmore told her. "The scent's a little strong."

Lilith chuckled softly and brushed a wisp of hair away from her face. Under the moonlight, each fine hair seemed to shimmer. It had more of a silver cast to it than during the day.

The two sat together quietly then, listening to the night. A distant honking of car horns sounded faintly, but neither moved. The silence seemed to surround them, waiting gently as long as they needed it to. Finally, Fillmore spoke.

"Do you think he's really gone?" he asked softly. He turned to look at Lilith and saw the same hint of fear in her gentle face as he knew flickered in his own.

"I think he is," she answered. "But I don't know if I'll ever believe it."

"Yeah." Fillmore's voice was heavy with his own frustration, his own anger at himself for the fear he still felt, might always feel. He still woke at night sometimes, knowing that Darkness was out there, was coming for him. He didn't know how long the fear would last, or if he would ever be rid of it.

Perhaps monsters never really died.

There was another silence as each struggled to recapture their earlier calm, as each searched for a discussion topic that would move them away and mask their fear, at least for now. A chill wind whispered past, but neither shivered as it caressed their skin in passing. They had been trained until stillness was more than an action; it was simply a way of existence. A thought flickered into Fillmore's mind, something that had been puzzling him for a while now, ever since Ingrid had recounted the story of her capture to him, back when they talked more.

He said softly, "Ingrid told me that you were the one who rescued her from Darkness."

Lilith nodded.

"Why?"

Lilith was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "I wasn't going to," she said at last. "Not at first. You know I was the one who saw you talking with her." It wasn't a question, but Fillmore nodded, though he doubted that she had noticed. She wasn't looking at him, but out over the dark rooftops. "When I first saw you," Lilith said softly, "I was horrified. It was unnatural and dangerous, like seeing an owl and a toad decide to be friends, and all I could think was that it had to be a trick, that I had to get help, had to save you." She paused, and inhaled deeply, as though the cool night air was all that was keeping her talking. "You know what happened then," she said, and Fillmore too drew in a shaky breath, remembering the fight on the rooftops and afterward, in Darkness's chair. That too was a memory that haunted his dreams.

"It was only after you were safe at home," she continued after a moment, "that I started to actually remember what I had seen. I remembered the way you had looked; excited and interested and happy, and always questioning in that way you have. We were told that you were being brainwashed, and I hadn't questioned it at first, but when I thought about it, well…you just seemed so like yourself, almost more like yourself than I had ever seen you. And I remembered her, and the way she looked at you." This also seemed hard, and Lilith trailed off. She looked off into the distance and didn't speak for several minutes. Fillmore waited patiently. And he too watched the horizen. It was turning cold, and the breeze over the rooftops seemed to stimulate his blood. He felt the hairs stand up on his arms underneath his sleeves, and at the back of his neck, but he didn't speak, he merely waited. Waiting was something he had always been good at.

"She looked at you," Lilith said at last, "and I saw her mind in her eyes. I saw it again before I let her out and helped her escape. What I saw…" she sighed, as though she was having trouble putting her thoughts into words. Once again, Fillmore waited. Then she smiled a little, although it seemed to strain her face, and looked over at Fillmore again. "I could see," she said, "that she wanted to save you too." Fillmore gave a soft chuckle.

"Well, she did," he said.

"And you saved me," Lilith finished, "and everyone else."

There was another silence, which was broken when Fillmore shifted discontentedly. He hugged himself against the chills, whithin and whithout, and rubbed his hands down the goosepimpled flesh of his arms.

"I just wonder if I'll always feel like this," he said miserably. "I feel like an outsider. I can't explain myself to anyone because I don't feel like I can really trust them, and they wouldn't understand, and…I'm so lonely sometimes. It's gotten easier since the first morning, but do you think it will ever really go away?"

"No," Lilith said. "At least, I think we'll always feel different from everyone else. Darkness changed us, but that doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing.

"What do you mean?"

"You saved us," Lilith repeated, and she smiled again, more easily this time. "You told me what happened when you got your memories back for the second time. You beat Darkness at his own game. You couldn't have done that before."

"I know," Fillmore said darkly. He had been able to tell Lilith what he had never been able to explain to Ingrid, but it was still a very painful subject, and one that he didn't feel like remembering again.

"But that's just the point," Lilith said, clearly understanding Fillmore's unspoken thoughts. She was looking at him now, and her normally calm eyes were filled with conviction. Intensity flickered in the contours of her face, and Fillmore found himself meeting those eyes against his will. "He made us this way," Lilith said. "He made us silent and deadly. He taught us to use every advantage against our opponent, to never stop fighting and to manipulate our opponents. He taught us to be his perfects slaves, and we were, but you used everything he taught us to beat him, to bring him down. These skills are ours now, and we can use them in any way we choose."

"They aren't a trap, they're a gift." Fillmore's voice was soft, almost unwilling, but still the words crept from his lips and into the dark air. "It's a harsh gift because it means we can never be like the other people in our lives, but…." He paused and let his senses expand, heard a distant argument from a next door house, pinpointed a car engine from the next street over. He widened his nostrils and breathed in, smelling the recent rain, the metallic, chemical scent of human life, and a distant hint of trees carried on the wind, and he sighed. "I don't want to lose my perception either," he admitted.

"I know," Lilith said. "Darkness was evil, and…I still have nightmares about him. I wish I had never met him, but this is me now. You and I and the rest of us, we'll always see the world a little differently, but that doesn't mean we have to feel handicapped or broken, and…we don't have to be alone either, because we have each other."

"We do," Fillmore said. He closed his eyes and smiled into the night. He knew he would never be who he was before his capture. They had all been changed, and that wouldn't change just because their tormentor was dead. Perhaps Reaper too would realize this, perhaps he already had. But it was true that he was now more in control of himself, and more aware of the world around him. And he wasn't alone. Perhaps in time, Reaper would also realize that.

"Are you coming then?" he asked the girl beside him. Lilith swept her gray-blond hair away from her face, and rose to her feet as he did.

"I thought you'd never ask," she answered.

Without another word, the two of them headed off together, slipping silently over the roof plates, flitting from roof to roof, separate but together. So, slowly the disappeared into the darkness; two shadows under the moon.

End

* * *

Thanks for sticking it out with me everyone! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you all enjoyed the story, even if it was a strange ride.

**But wait!** Very soon I will be posting a one-shot companion to this story, titled "White Walls". It will be separate from this story, and is in Reaper's point of view during his incarceration by the police, and what followed his escape. Reaper was always my favorite character in this story. I planned his character down to the last detail, but I didn't end up actually writing about him very much in the story, as Fillmore was the main character, and the readers could only see what he saw of Reaper. Therefore, this one-shot gave me a chance to write about Reaper a little more.

I am also considering a sequel story which would star Reaper. Fillmore would likely be in it, but Reaper would be the main character. Anyway, read the one-shot and let me know what you all think. If anyone is interested in seeing more of Reaper I will write and post that story as I already have a lot of it planned out.

In any case, thank you for reading this story and for all of your helpful comments!


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